


Far Beyond the Stars

by mokuyoubi



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Firefly, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: AU, Firefly AU, M/M, Prostitution, Threesome, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Firefly AU. After the scandal of the Miranda broadcast, the Verse is in political turmoil--the opportune moment for those who want to make a change. Brendon Urie is a Companion, heading for Sihnon to meet up with other members of the Guild so that he can use his political influence to bring about positive change in the Parliament and the Verse.  However, Brendon needs to get off Newhall and make his way back to the core planets, first.  The ship he finds harbours a bit of an eccentric crew, and both Captain Smith and his best friend onboard seem a little jumpy, especially around Alliance cruisers. Brendon figures he can work with that.<br/>Spoilers for Firefly and Serenity, though no previous knowledge of either necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Beyond the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> A map of the verse, for those interested:  
> http://test.fireflyrpg.com/maps/
> 
> Translations for the Chinese (and Spanish) can be read by hovering the mouse over the word or phrase, and are also at the end of the fic, whichever you prefer to use. The translations are not literal. Many Chinese curse words translated literally deal with eggs and animals. Their phrase that most closely matches the strength and sentiment of our “fuck you” is literally “go away.” Clearly, this literal translation does not show the true feeling behind the phrase. As such, I have gone for the feeling of the words, rather than exact translations.
> 
> (Companions are a form of legal and highly regulated prostitutes, steeped in tradition and ceremony) – this _does not_ equate to dub or non-con.

—

_These are just a few of the images we've recorded, and you can see it isn't…it isn't what we thought. There's been no war here, and no terraforming event. The environment is stable. It's the Pax, the G-32 Paxilon Hydroclorate that we added to the air processors. It's...well it works...it was supposed to calm the population, weed out aggression. The people here stopped fighting. And then they stopped everything else. They stopped going to work, stopped breeding...talking... eating..._

_There's thirty million people here and they all just let themselves die.  
I have to be quick. About a tenth of a percent of the population had the opposite reaction to the Pax. Their aggressor response increased... beyond madness. They've become...well they've killed most of us. And not just killed, they've done things. I won't live to report this, but people have to know. We meant it for the best, to make people safer._

The Miranda Broadcast

Dusk is falling in the capital city of Warren, fiery orange light catching and reflecting off the hulls of the ships lining the docking port. Brendon weaves through the throng of new arrivals hurrying toward the heart of town, where the pubs are opening their doors and cheerful music is beginning to fill the air. The crowd parts for him unconsciously and automatically—even on the Rim planets his status earns him respect, whether or not those granting it realise what he is.

Alex follows behind with their luggage, keeping pace admirably, despite the unwieldiness and bulk of the hovering trunks. He is silent, though Brendon knows there are questions he would like to voice, protests he would like to lodge. That what Brendon proposes is risky at best, downright suicidal at worst. That there are safer, if less direct, courses of action that could be taken. 

There are three private transport ships set to depart before nightfall, each more rundown than the last. The barker of the first ship is an eager looking young man bouncing on his feet, speaking to everyone who passes, loudly singing praise of his crew. He has an ugly desperation in his eyes that makes Brendon ill at ease, and he quickly leads Alex by it. 

The second has no barker but a whore, dressed in a mockery of Brendon’s garments—robe parted low to bare her cleavage and high to show the tan silk of her thigh. Her smoky eyes smirk at him as he dismisses this ship, too. He has no qualms with those men and women who choose to make a living at his trade outside the safety and structure of the Guild. All the same, he has no desire to surround himself by said men and women, nor those who would patronise them. 

Two men sit in the open dock of the final transport ship, a Drakken class in fairly good shape. The men are playing cards on an overturned crate. Brendon’s gaze is caught by the colourful tattoos up one of the man’s arms, and the way they are both dressed as if they stepped straight out of a film set on the Earth-That-Was. 

“Excuse me,” Brendon calls, stepping up the platform. Alex waits obediently behind. 

They turn to look at him, the tattooed one’s expression going from surly to entranced at the sight of him. The other one, in the ball cap, turns bright red and looks back at his cards. 

“Can I help you?” the tattooed one purrs. The other kicks him rather unsubtly behind the crate. Brendon doesn’t fight his amused grin. He knows the power his smile has over others. “I’m Pete Wentz, and this is Patrick, pilot of this fine ship.” 

“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Brendon says, and extends his hand to them each. Patrick looks like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “My name is Brendon, and my valet is Marshall. Are you still taking passengers?” 

“In theory,” Pete says. “Not too many people are keen on heading to the Core right now.” 

“Is that where you’re headed?” Brendon asks, careful to keep his tone even. 

“Londinium,” Pete confirms, with a nod of his head. “But what with current events, people seem to think it’s safer out on the Rim.” He gives Brendon a searching look. “You heading in?” 

“I have no particular destination in mind,” Brendon says. “I have been at Newhall two seasons, and it has lost its shine, if it ever had any.” 

Pete gives him a sharp grin. “You’re not much like the other whores ‘round here.” 

Brendon refuses to rise to the bait. He does not expect them to recognise his rank. Any ship docking would be privy to basic information such as the lack of any Guild presence in Warren. As far as anyone knows, no Companions have been in the city for over six months. Brendon has travelled as a civilian, and for now, it suits him to pass as a prostitute. “If my profession is a problem…” he offers simply. 

Patrick shoots Pete a glare and then turns his gaze on Brendon, apologetic. “It isn’t,” he says. “Can you pay?” 

Brendon holds out his palm and Alex comes forward to lay a silk purse in it, coins jingling as it settles. 

“Business is booming on Newhall,” Pete says appreciatively. 

“Indeed,” Brendon agrees. 

“Welcome aboard, the _Nevada_ , Brendon,” Pete says. He nods at Alex, “Marshall. Allow me to show you to your quarters.” 

*

Spencer taps his stylus against the data pad, shifting view again. Beaumonde is still there, turning idly in space, surrounded as always by dozens of ships—transporters, smugglers, mail curriers, and the odd Alliance ship. 

Ryan reaches over his shoulder, drawing a line that veers off sharply to the other side of Kalidasa, taking them around New Kasmir and heading toward Three Hills and between Newhope and Daedalus, then weaving their way through the Core to Londinium. 

“Yeah,” Spencer snorts, “if you want to get there when we’re _thirty_.” 

Ryan makes an annoyed sound. “Once we get past Salisbury we’re gonna be swimming in Alliance cruisers.” 

“You’re talking about twenty-three point two days—adding over a week to the trip,” Spencer whines. “Do I need to remind you why we’re going back? You don’t seem to get the urgency of the situation.” 

“I get the urgency just fine, Spence.” Ryan levels him with a dark glare. “I’d just rather be late than locked up in an Alliance ship somewhere, or at the pointy end of some Parliament Operative’s sword.” 

“You’re being paranoid.” Spencer taps his stylus rapidly against the screen, calling up a highlighted path that takes them between Beaumonde and Zephyr, then towards Qin Shi and Paquin before heading into the Core. “Mikey recommended this route, and according to Pete’s intel, the majority of Alliance ships have reported to the outer planets of Qing Long in response to the Reaver attacks.” 

“Yeah, well, last I heard Pete’s best source of information was part of the casualties in those attacks,” Ryan snaps back. 

There’s a rap at the inner hull and Spencer raises his head to see Patrick giving them a barely veiled look of amusement. “We got ourselves a couple passengers and I’m getting shit from the docking authorities about our departure time.” 

“Thanks, Patrick, yeah,” Spencer says, standing and pocketing his data pad. He taps the comm. button by the hall. “Lock ‘er up, Jon.” 

Patrick gives him a questioning look as the engines come online, the ship humming with energy. “Orders, Captain?” he asks, gaze flicking to Ryan and back again.

“We’re sticking with the original course,” Spencer says, ignoring Ryan’s half-aborted noise of rage as he storms off the bridge, grumbling, “ _Yú bèn de…wáng bā dàn_.”

Patrick arches a brow but doesn’t comment as he slides into place at the pilot’s seat. He begins adjusting the controls and releases the docking clamp. Spencer feels the moment the internal gravity takes over. “Pete’s down there with our…guests,” Patrick says. 

“ _Guǐ_ ,” Spencer mutters. “If Ryan tries to give you a hard time...” 

“I’ll lock him off the bridge,” Patrick finishes smoothly. He’s heard it enough, Spencer figures, and smiles a little ruefully. 

Pete has their guests in the dining hall, showing them the rations. Spencer hangs back in the front hall for a moment, observing. The two bear a passing resemblance to one another—similarly coloured with dark hair and eyes, full mouths, strong noses. The younger one has soft features, is pretty, if in a generic way. His fellow traveller, however, is strikingly beautiful. He is dressed in fine Chinese robes reminiscent of the style on Ariel and Sihnon, a rich, vibrant brocade that is dulled by the man’s smile, the sparkle of his eyes. 

His gaze catches Spencer’s and his smile broadens in welcoming. There is no question, in Spencer’s mind, what this man is. The Rim is full of his kind. They dress in the finest silks, style their hair, paint their faces, adopt what they think is a sophisticated form of speech and movement. Having seen the real thing in his youth, Spencer can spot the common whores playing at being Companions. 

“Welcome aboard, gentlemen,” Spencer greets them, stepping down into the dining hall. 

Pete waggles his brows behind the backs of the guests and Spencer fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Brendon, Marshall, this is Captain Smith.” 

The younger one, Marshall, dips his head politely in greeting. Brendon moves closer offering a delicate hand that is soft in Spencer’s. “Captain, thank you for having us on board,” he says in a surprisingly low-pitched voice. 

“You’re heading towards the Core?” Spencer asks. He can’t help his suspicion. Even with the current political atmosphere, the Guild will retain its power and prestige. Whores will be no more welcome within the Core than they have ever been. 

“We are heading wherever fate takes us, Captain Smith,” Brendon says. 

Spencer frowns, studying Brendon’s open, vaguely amused expression. At length, he nods. “Just to be clear, there won’t be any trading of your wares on the ship. You pay in goods, not services. _Dǒng ma_?”

Brendon takes a step backwards smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back. “ _Fàng-xīn_. It will not be an issue. I believe I have provided Mister Wentz with appropriate recompense for my transport and Marshall’s. And,” he glances at Spencer coyly from beneath his lashes. “I hardly think anyone on your crew could afford me, Captain.” Pete doesn’t bother trying to cover his laughter and Brendon grants him a quick smile. “Now, if you will excuse us, I believe we shall quit to our rooms to freshen up before supper.” 

Spencer waits until the ringing of their footsteps has receded before turning on Pete. “Don’t give me _niào_ face,” Pete says, and underhand tosses a silk purse to Spencer. “He gave me two months rent up front. Even once I told him we’d be reaching Londinium within two weeks.” 

“And you don’t find that odd?” Spencer asks. 

“Dude, they’re _whores_ ,” Pete says and shrugs. “Small wonder they made a fortune on the Rim. Small wonder they pissed someone off bad enough they want as far away as possible as quick as possible.” 

“Maybe,” Spencer says, but it still feels off. “Just. Keep an eye on them. And keep your ears open. And no touching, okay?” 

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Patrick says, ducking into the dining hall. “He’d know better than to try that _fèi huà_.” He gives Pete an arch look. 

“ _Bǎo bèi_ ,” Pete coos, and goes to him, cosying up under Patrick’s arm. “I believe we shall quit to our room to freshen up before supper.” Pete manages a surprisingly decent approximation of Brendon’s voice. Patrick shoves at him, but follows him easily down to the crew quarters. 

Vicky is lounging in Zack’s hammock in the engine room when Spencer pokes his head inside. Spencer will never fail to be impressed by the way she manages to lounge around in her miniskirts without flashing everyone. Zack is mostly obscured, messing around with some…engine-y part. Spencer has supreme confidence in his skill. 

“Saw our new passengers,” Vicky says. She does this sort of obscene thing with her tongue between her teeth. “Shiny.” 

She’s good at her job, there’s no question, which is probably why Spencer finds it so unsettling when she says things like that. “Do I need to give you the same warning I gave Pete?” he teases. 

“Please,” Vicky says, amused. “Patrick would have his _yīn jīng_ if he tried it.” 

Zack pokes his head out from under the engine. “New passengers? They know we’re goin’ to the Core? If we don’t fall out of the fucking sky, first.” 

“Can you just keep her running ‘til we get to Osiris,” Spencer pleads. 

Zack’s eyes flick to the purse in Spencer’s fist. “You’ve been promising me a new compression coil for three months, now, Smith.” 

“I’ll get you a whole new gorram engine at Osiris,” he says over his shoulder on his way out. 

“You know we could take that from you in a fair fight,” Vicky calls after him. 

“Vicky, there’s nothing fair about fighting either of you two,” he calls back, smiling at their unimpressed grumblings. 

Jon’s in the kitchen when he comes back through, dicing vegetables on the island. “I’m makin’ a meal for nine, now?” he asks. “I’ve been stretching our rations as is.” 

“With what our plus two are paying it won’t be a problem after putting down on Zephyr.” 

“Yeah, well I hope our fancy ass guests aren’t expecting some gourmet meal, here,” Jon says, tossing the zucchini into the frying pan all haphazard. 

Spencer rolls his eyes. “No one would expect anything of the kind from you.” 

“ _gàn nǐ niáng_!” Jon tells him cheerfully. Spencer’s never met anyone capable of cussing him out as pleasantly as Jon can. 

The bridge is empty when Spencer returns and he falls gratefully into Patrick’s seat, double-checking everything. Their course shouldn’t bring them close to anyone or anything for a good ten hours. He props his boots up on the control panel, tilts back in the seat, and lets his eyes rest, just for a minute. 

*

Alex flutters around the room, covering the grey bulkheads in brightly coloured swaths of fabric, lighting candles and incense, remaking Brendon’s bed with satin sheets from their trunk. It isn’t that Brendon doesn’t appreciate his efforts, but they are distracting. 

There are three proposed courses on file, when he hacks into the helm’s computer, and none of them will suit Brendon’s purpose. “They are avoiding the most direct route,” he murmurs. “Alex, stop fidgeting.” 

“Perhaps you can convince Captain Smith to change course.” 

“ _Dāngrán_. Are you suggesting something unseemly?” Brendon asks, glancing over his shoulder to pin Alex with a look. 

“I just thought, being out here…” Alex trails off, refusing to meet Brendon’s gaze. 

“Things are different on the Rim,” Brendon says, with understanding. He reaches out to lay his hand over Alex’s. “You have been a remarkable student, Alexander, but the education you have received with me here is dramatically different from the one you can expect upon reaching Sihnon. What you must understand is that although I have been operating outside the Guild’s protection, I have not been operating outside their tenets. I won’t begin to do so now.” 

Alex nods meekly. It isn’t his fault, Brendon knows. Most Companions begin training at twelve. Alex, who is twenty-one, has been with Brendon less than a year. At least he didn’t have most of the overly romantic notions about the job that many applicants from the Rim and Border worlds have, but all the same he still has much to learn about the differences between whoring and Companionship, for all that he holds the former in disdain.

Companions may hold sway over their clients, that is true, but it is always as result of a mutually beneficial relationship—Brendon gets the vote cast the way he wants, and his client receives not only pleasure, but counsel, from a trained professional. The Guild has very strict rules about using Companion training on individuals who are not clients.

“However,” Brendon says, taking pity, “perhaps we can help Captain Smith to choose our course through other methods. There is this other course…” he traces his fingertip along empty space to Three Hills. 

“That would take us dangerously close to the last known location of Operative Reeves’ ship,” Alex observes, indicating a spot along the orbit of Lux. 

“And the other into open space bound to be occupied by many an Alliance cruiser whose allegiance is not guaranteed. No,” Brendon murmurs, “Our best bet is the most direct. Shane and Kara will readily assist us, and I believe William and Gabriel can be persuaded, as well.” 

The computer interface provided by Gerard makes for quick, nearly undetectable subspace communication. The only way anyone on the _Nevada_ would notice is if they were looking really hard at the exact channel and at the exact moment the message was sent. Even then, these backwater folk would have no hope of decoding the message. 

Brendon composes his message to Shane first. Of all his connections in the Verse, Shane is his most trusted and trustworthy. Shane’s last message puts him somewhere in the vicinity of Beylix, which fits perfectly with the _Nevada_ ’s course. 

“Do you think that will be enough to make them change course?” Alex asks, going back to his flittering. He moves between their sitting area and the refresher, setting out a basin of steaming water and scented oils. 

Brendon finishes his message and rises, shedding his outer robe. Alex moves behind him to collect it, setting it neatly aside before seeing to the fastenings of Brendon’s undergarments. 

“I have not yet developed a rich assessment of the character of our Captain Smith, but he does strike me as a rather _jǐnshèn_. We’ll have to see how he responds to our first move.” 

Brendon sinks to his knees on the cushions Alex has laid out, tipping his head forward to bare his neck. Alex lays the sponge to his skin, squeezing out the excess water, filling the air with the scent of almond blossoms. It has been a while since Brendon has been made to resort to a sponge bath; his normal transports are far more luxurious than this. 

The droplets roll down his spine and pool in the small of his back. Brendon allows his muscles to relax under Alex ministrations, obediently raising his arms, wrist heavy in Alex’s hand as Alex draws the sponge down his side. 

“Does it not bother you that they assume we’re whores?” Alex murmurs. He releases Brendon’s wrist gently, laying Brendon’s hands in his lap and dipping the sponge in the basin. 

“There’s no shame in whoring, Alex,” Brendon admonishes. “The men and women of the border planets and in the Rim do not always have access to Guild sanctioned companionship.” 

“I know,” Alex says, frowning, “but those men view us as their inferiors—”

“And it suits our purposes,” Brendon interrupts. Alex cups his jaw, tilting his head back, running the sponge along his throat, brushing back the wisps of hair that fall around Brendon’s ears. “Allow them to believe what they will.” 

Brendon can sense, even with eyes closed, that Alex disapproves of this course of action, yet he holds his tongue. He is learning to control himself admirably. Perhaps by the time Brendon leaves the Guild, Alex will be ready to enter it. 

“Do you ever get angry?” Alex asks, dabbing gently at Brendon’s face, along the arch of his eye and the sweep of his cheekbone. 

Brendon bites back a smile. “When you deny others power over your emotions, there is no need for anger,” he answers. “I hope I won’t live to see the day I allow someone like Captain Smith to wield such power over me.” 

Brendon opens his eyes to see Alex watching him with an odd mixture of sadness and admiration. It makes his stomach clench with something like regret, which he quickly pushes aside. If he cannot practice what he teaches, how can he expect Alex to do so? 

“It’s the price we pay, Alexander,” Brendon tells him, gently. Tells himself, as he was told so many years ago. “We are powerful creatures. We’re coveted and envied by men and women across the Verse. We have all the luxuries we could ever desire. And in turn we sacrifice certain of our emotions.” He rises, slipping on the dressing robe Alex has set aside for him and tying the sash. “It’s no great sacrifice,” he continues. “Anger is self-indulgent and poisonous. Patience for those less enlightened than ourselves is far preferable.” 

Brendon has heard the words repeated enough that they have long since become a part of his belief system. What cannot be taught through experience can be taught through repetition. He has found there is little difference between repeating a thing and believing it. 

“Remember your first lesson, Alex, and it will serve you well,” Brendon says. 

Obediently, Alex recites, “ _He who controls others may be powerful, but he who has mastered himself is mightier still_.” Brendon gives him a pleased nod, allowing the words to smooth over the cracks of his own armour, making it whole again. 

As he dresses there is a beep from the interface, indicating receipt of his message. Shane would not risk responding unless there was a problem. Brendon smiles at his reflection in the mirror over the vanity, pleased with this small success. 

*

Ryan glares at his data pad, unable to focus on the words. He rolls onto his back, hand falling over the edge of the bed, pad clacking against the floor as he drops it. His legs are long enough that when he stretches them straight up his feet press against the hull above the bunk. His knees bend and his hamstrings sting in the position and he presses his feet hard against the metal above, like it might give, until his legs are aching. 

“Fuck,” he says, because it feels good to swear in his own language. He grins vindictively when he imagines what his father’s reaction would be. He thinks he might say it when he sees his father, just because he _can_ now. 

If they make it to Londinium at all. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growls at the ceiling, unsurprised when Spencer opens the hatch unannounced and unbidden. “Fuck,” Ryan says sullenly. 

Spencer arches an unimpressed brow. “Dinner’s ready.” 

“You’re an asshole,” Ryan tells him, tone matter-of-fact. 

“And you’re my best friend,” Spencer says, in the same tone. “What’s that say about you? Get your lazy _pìgu_ up before Zack and Pete eat your share. And don’t think I won’t let them.” 

“ _Ass_ hole,” Ryan drawls, really getting a feel for the words. 

“And keep a civil tongue in your mouth around the guests,” Spencer snaps, drawing back. 

Ryan rolls out of his bunk, shoves his feet into his slippers and begins climbing the rungs of the ladder. Spencer leans against the far wall of the hall. “You might be Captain of this ship, Spencer Smith, but you are not the Captain of me,” he mutters. “And you’re going to get us all killed.” 

Spencer gives him a little shove toward the dining hall. “Your concern has been duly noted.” 

Ryan bites his tongue and suppresses the childish urge to shove back. He feels trapped in his skin, caged by the walls of the _Nevada_ , this sense of foreboding pressing in on him. It makes him want to act out, to push Spencer back, to see a reaction worthy of the situation they are in. 

“Hey,” Spencer says, serious. “You know I’m not gonna let anything happen to us. You _know_ that.” 

And yeah, Ryan’s never had a reason to doubt Spencer before, never would have even entertained the notion. All the same, he can’t shake this feeling, of anticipation and terror. 

Spencer stops him before they reach the dining hall, grabbing Ryan by the arm and holding him back. “Ryan, you can do this. You are _going_ to do this.” 

Ryan shrugs him off. “Whatever,” he says, dismissive. He hurries through to the dining room before Spencer can say anything else, tossing himself gracelessly into his seat at Spencer’s left. 

He grabs a roll off Vicky’s plate just because he can get away with it. She gives him a dangerous look but takes another roll from the dish at the centre of the table. Ryan tears off a chunk of the bread, twisting the soft, doughy bits between his fingers and nibbling at them. He ignores the plate of steaming vegetables; he’s sort of grown to hate the sight of summer squash. 

“I hope we’re not late,” a voice says, and Ryan’s head jerks up. Their passengers have arrived, an unremarkably pretty teenager and the man who spoke, with his blinding white smile and dark, soft-looking waves of hair framing his face. Ryan can’t stop his gaze from travelling along the lines of the man’s purple and golden _sari_ to the tan skin of his arms, and elegant hands covered in jewelled rings and mirrored bracelets. 

“Not at all,” Spencer says. “Crew, this is Brendon and Marshall.” He goes down the line of the table, introducing them each in turn. Ryan manages a tight nod of greeting when his name is spoken, swallowing when Brendon graces him with a private little smile. 

Brendon takes the seat to Spencer’s right and Marshall falls in between him and Jon. “This looks delicious,” Brendon says, allowing Marshall to serve him. “I’ll admit, after our tour, my hopes weren’t that high.” 

Jon ducks his head, ears going red. Ryan notes it with a distant amazement. “Glad we meet your standards,” Spencer says, sarcastic on the surface, but Ryan can hear more beneath it, an unsteadiness. 

_All this over a Border world whore_ , he thinks, even as he traces with his eyes the curve of Brendon’s jaw, the sweep of his long, long lashes. Brendon catches his gaze but does not comment. 

There is a long silence at the table, Vicky and Patrick exchanging absurd expressions with each other, Pete chuckling into Patrick’s shoulder. Zack clears his throat. “So you two from Newhall?” 

Brendon takes a drink of his water before answering. “My family is from Hera. I met Marshall on Regina. We spent some time at Three Hills before coming to Kalidasa.” 

“The Rim has been an interesting experience,” Marshall mutters sarcastically, earning him a look of mixed amusement and admonition from Brendon. 

“And you are all from the area?” Brendon asks, neatly cutting his squash into even pieces before taking a small bite. 

“Here and there,” Spencer says tersely. “All over the Verse.” 

“And now you’re heading to Londinium on…business?” Brendon gives him a blandly inquiring look. 

“Something like that,” Vicky cuts in, giving Brendon her best intimidating look. Ryan’s been on the receiving end of that one more than once. Maybe the guy will take a hint. 

“I was just surprised,” Brendon remarks innocently. “You’re the only transport I’ve seen in over a week, heading to the Core.” 

Ryan just stares until Spencer’s voice breaks him out of it. “Out here on the Rim people tend to mind their own business. No one’s looking to stick their noses in this whole Alliance _xiā shuō bā dào_.”

Brendon’s expression is blank, and he blinks politely a few times. Then he gives them a sunny smile. “I’m afraid I don’t much keep up with the politics of the Core. My knowledge of current events is limited to what scandal Magistrate Phillips has got himself into this week.” 

There’s a brief silence, the crew stirring and exchanging glances. Pete gestures with his chopsticks. “Yeah, but you have to have seen the Miranda broadcast,” he blurts out. 

“Oh yes,” Brendon says with sudden realisation. “That business with the Tams.” Like it’s something distasteful that he’d rather forget, some ugly trifle to be shoved under the rug, rather than the slaughter of thirty million people and the creation of the Reavers. Ryan doesn’t let his jaw drop, but it’s a close thing. 

“Yeah, _that_ ,” Pete begins, in a dangerously low voice, but Spencer cuts him off. 

“I’m sure you can see how the Alliance’s role—not only in their disastrous initial attempt at controlling the populous, but in their attempt to cover it up by ordering the murder of a seventeen year old girl—has weakened the current regime.” 

“Well,” Brendon says, the expression on his face like he’s missing the punch line to a joke. “Certainly there has been talk among supporters of the Independents, former Browncoats...but they have no voice in our government, and anyway, opinions have always been more…liberal, on the Rim.” 

“It’s true,” Ryan says slowly, playing with his chopsticks. Brendon’s eyes flick to him, lighting with interest. “Guess we uncivilised folk out here get that way about a conquering government that can’t be bothered to provide any form of assistance to its most desperate and deserving citizens. There’re plenty of former Alliance supporters on these worlds out here who have been forgotten and spit upon, repeatedly. Can’t really blame ‘em for feeling a little civil unrest.” 

Spencer gives Ryan a look of indulgent exasperation, interrupting. “The thing is, Brendon, it isn’t just us on the edge feeling it this time. Miranda wasn’t your average Border planet. They were trying to recreate the Core out there. Showed people it could happen to any of us, Rim, Border, Core alike.” 

“You’ll forgive me, Captain,” Brendon says, brow furrowed, “but it seems to me as though it will take much more than a bit of civil unrest to bring about any significant change in our government.” 

Pete lets out a frustrated sigh. “A bit of civil unrest? Do you know how many people died to get that message out? The Alliance—”

A proximity klaxon begins to blare along with the chime indicating a hail. Zack’s halfway to the engine room before any of the rest of them are on their feet. Patrick dashes for the bridge, Pete hot on his heels. Vicky makes for her quarters, no doubt to prepare herself, if boarding becomes an issue. 

Spencer turns to the guests, and Ryan is pleased to note Brendon’s vaguely alarmed expression. “You should probably return to your rooms for now,” Spencer says, before heading to the bridge. 

Ryan spares them another look. There’s something more he wants to say, but he isn’t even certain what it is. There are more important things right now. He runs to catch up with Spencer as he arrives at the bridge. 

“It’s Alliance,” Pete calls out, and Ryan catches Spencer’s eye, saving up all the _I told you sos_ for when they aren’t being hailed by the Alliance. 

“What’s the alarm?” Spencer asks, chewing absently on his bottom lip. Ryan looks away, glaring hard at the floor. His heart is pounding so loudly he can barely hear Patrick’s response over it. 

“Alliance cruiser on its way from Oberon to Beaumonde. They’ve got shuttles heading for Zephyr, Beylix and Newhall.” 

“What the— _Tā mā de_.” Spencer lets out a long breath through his nose. “Pete?” 

Pete’s fingers fly over his controls, eyes scanning his screen. “They’re performing searches of all passing vessels. No mention of what they’re looking for. So far they’ve detained a dragonfly class and two smugglers.” 

“Open the channel,” he orders. 

Spencer’s back goes straight, his face blank, betraying none of his concern, as a man roughly their age appears on the screen. His messy brown hair and scruff are non-regulation and look oddly out of place with his Alliance general’s uniform. _Must have family connections_ , Ryan notes with a distant, almost hysterical amusement. 

“Dekkan vessel, this is Alliance cruiser _Regan_. Identify yourself,” the man orders. 

“ _Nevada_ , sir, Captain Smith,” Spencer says. 

The general looks at something on the data pad in his hand, gloved finger scanning down. “Your business on Zephyr?” he asks, sounding supremely bored. 

“Just picking up some supplies, sir,” Spencer answers, voice smooth. “Running low on foodstuffs.” 

The general apparently sees something on the data pad that interests him. He raises his head again, gaze flicking from Spencer’s face to Ryan’s. Ryan forces himself not to take a step back into the shadows, schooling his features into detached annoyance. 

“Very well,” the general says, with a curt nod. “Our shuttle will meet you outside the entry point. Be prepared for boarding and have your idents ready.” He makes a signal off-screen and the transmission ends. 

“ _Tā mā de hún dàn_. Patrick, what’s our distance?” Spencer asks. 

“Still three hours out,” Patrick answers at once. “But with their engines they could make it to us in one.” 

“What are they searching for?” Ryan asks, pleased to note he doesn’t sound as terrified as he feels. There’s an odd disconnect right now between his brain and his body, something he hasn’t felt in almost seven years. 

Pete shakes his head. “I don’t—There is no official reason given for detaining the ships. They have nothing in…” He stops, tapping at something on his screen. “Oh _gāisǐ_. They’re all ex-Independents. The captain of the _Severn_ , two passengers on the _Defiant_ , the medic on the _Zhāoxiá_.”

“For what purpose?” Ryan demands, leaning over the back of Pete’s seat to better see his screen. None of the names stand out to him; they aren’t war heroes, no one who has continued to rebel against Alliance control. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Spencer says. “Patrick, what about heading around the other side of Kalidasa?” 

“Given the current rotation, that puts us awfully close to Aberdeen and Djinn’s Bane.” Patrick brings up a star map, showing the two planets less than three hours apart. “We could try shooting past Angel and Heaven.” 

“We’re still gonna need supplies before we reach open space,” Spencer says, pensive. 

“Verbena,” Ryan says decisively. “The ion cloud should hide us if the cruiser sends a shuttle after us, and Brent owes us.” 

“Yeah, and I’m sure he’ll be thrilled at us bringing the Alliance to his doorstep,” Spencer mutters. 

Ryan gives him an unwavering look and Spencer sighs, shoulders slumping. “You heard the man,” he says to Patrick. “Verbena it is.” He leans over Pete to press the comm. button. “Zack, get ready to run.” 

They’re not prepared to do this. They’ve played it safe before, always staying under Alliance radar, always cooperating. They’ve never had the need, before. Their pulse beacon and nav-sat are going to be a dead giveaway. 

Ryan hurries off the bridge as Patrick sets in their new course. Jon’s in the dining hall with Vicky, dinner plates replaced with a vast array of weaponry that Ryan hopes they won’t be using any time soon. “Jon, help me out down in the cargo bay.” 

“We’re running?” Vicky asks, with no particular tone in her voice. 

“Don’t worry,” Ryan tells her with a toothy smile, burying the sour feeling of fear deep down inside until he almost can’t remember it. “I’m sure Brent will be more than willing to step up for an ass-kicking.” 

They have a couple of full-pressure suits for emergencies, stored off the main cargo bay. Ryan hates going out into the black; no matter how many times he’s done it, no matter what precautions are taken, he can’t even stop the irrational fear that something’s going to go wrong—a rip in the suit or crack in the mask allowing the pressure to escape, starving him of oxygen. Or maybe his cord will be cut and he’ll just float off forever into the vast emptiness of space. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Jon asks, eyeing him as he dons the suit. 

“Nope,” Ryan says, matter-of-fact. “But Zack and Patrick are sort of busy. You wanna give it a shot instead?” 

Jon holds up his hands. “Hey man, I just worry.” 

Ryan nods wearily. “You’re not the only one.” Jon helps him lock the helmet into place and gives him a reassuring thumbs up, and then Ryan steps into the inner airlock, waiting as Jon closes it, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable. 

The outer airlock opens and Ryan’s magnetic boots activate, jerking him close to the hull. He takes a minute to adjust to the pull before moving, clinging tightly to the cord connecting him to the _Nevada_. The access panel to the pulse beacon is on the underside of the ship and he makes his way there, slowly and steadily, feeling each step like an echo of his heartbeat. 

The thrusters shift as Patrick adjusts course and the whole ship shudders. For a moment, Ryan’s certain he’ll be shook loose. He imagines the reaction of their Alliance general, wonders if the man is surprised at all, if he’ll let them go or give chase. Without knowing what they’re looking for, it’s a risky move. Running draws attention. Then again, so would his and Spencer’s ident cards. 

“Ryan,” Spencer’s voice sounds in his ear, wary. “Any particular reason you’re taking a stroll along the belly of my ship in the middle of this potentially hairy situation.” 

“Just get Zack to take care of the dummy nav-sats,” Ryan mutters. “I’m going to make sure there’s no trail for the Alliance to follow.” 

“If we get stopped by another patrol,” Spencer warns. 

“Well, let’s not, then,” Ryan counters, maybe with a bit more venom than he meant to let through. If they’d just taken _his_ course to begin with. He goes down on one knee, gripping the magnetic lock and wrenching it to the left. It gives with a hiss that he can feel rather than hear. 

“Just hurry up,” Spencer says, and cuts the link. If possible, Spencer hates being in the black even more than Ryan. 

Their pulse beacon is nestled in among dozens of essential and nonessential parts, blinking a dull red to indicate that it’s working. Without it they aren’t going to be making port at any legitimate location. He just fucking hopes Mikey comes through with their transport at Persephone because there’s no way they’ll make it into the Core like this, let alone all the way to Londinium. 

The beacon comes away easily in his hand. It still flashes, operating under its own source of power. Maybe it’ll confuse the cruiser long enough that they won’t even realise what’s going on until the _Nevada_ is long gone. He tosses it as hard as he can, which is unsatisfying in the black, watching it turn slowly end over end, drifting away into nothing. 

“Good to go,” he calls through his comm., turning back towards the airlock. Jon’s anxious face meets him at the inner airlock, and as soon as the pressure returns he’s opening the door, hurrying to help Ryan with the suit. 

“When you two are Kings of Londinium, I fully expect to be compensated for all the stress you _hùndàn_ have put me through,” Jon tells him, after punching him soundly in the shoulder. “We’re talking palaces and Companions and all the weed I can smoke in my _life_.”

Ryan spares him a smile even though he’s still shivery inside over having been outside. “You’re a man of simple pleasures, Jon Walker.” 

“I’ll show you simple pleasures,” Jon growls, and they both jump when Spencer clears his throat from above. Ryan tilts his head back, spotting Spencer on the catwalk. 

“We’ll be at Verbena in twenty-eight hours,” he tells them in a toneless voice, then adds, before heading back towards the crew quarters, “It’s late. You should rest up.” 

“He was _joking_ ,” Ryan says, a little breathlessly, when he catches up with Spencer in the hall outside their rooms. 

Spencer gives him an unreadable look. “It’s really none of my business,” he says, which is true, and still makes Ryan want to hit him. He unlocks the hatch on his door, swinging around onto the ladder. “You can do whatever you want with whomever you want.” 

Ryan feels his lips twist into an ugly sneer and he just wants to _hurt_ Spencer, like Spencer seems to enjoy hurting him. “Maybe I will,” he mutters, and god, he feels five years old, but Spencer _makes_ him. 

Spencer calls up from his room as the door seals, “Maybe you _should_.”

Ryan kicks the wall, biting back on the initial cry of pain that tries to escape his lips. “Fucking asshole,” he growls, just as Pete comes down from the bridge, giving him a darkly amused look. 

“Everything good down here?” Pete asks, voice a teasing lilt. 

“Oh, _guǎn nǐ zìjǐ de shì_ ,” Ryan snaps at him, swinging into his own room. 

His data pad is face down at his bedside and when he picks it up, the text is still glowing black on cream. The words aren’t providing the distraction they normally would. He’d picked _Genji_ out of some fit of irony, only now he can’t bring himself to read it. 

The overhead lights go out in his room. Normally when Spencer takes over his controls it makes him smile; a lot of times it’s after he’s already half-asleep and has forgotten to do it himself. Just another way Spencer takes care of him. 

Tonight, it makes him fight the urge to throw his data pad against the wall. He _is_ tired, though, lids falling heavy over his eyes. It still takes him forever to fall asleep, mind racing with memories of before the war. It’s been close to a decade since he’s been in the Core; he can’t help but wonder how it has changed. His stomach flips over and over, imagining a hundred different conversations with his father. 

It will be different this time. This time his throat won’t close; the words will come out strong. 

*

Spencer’s up after six hours and the whole boat is quiet. He didn’t sleep well; rarely does after they’ve been planetside for an extended period of time, while his body adjusts to the different times on different planets, none of which match up to ship time. 

The bridge is dark but for the green glow of Patrick’s control panel. They’re still on course, with nothing in range for another few hours, and the space outside the view screen looks peaceful. Brent hasn’t responded to their wave, and Spencer’s not really surprised. They’re going to have to force their presence on him, but he’ll deal with it. He does owe them. 

The scent of jasmine hits him as he steps into the dining room. “ _Zǎo'ān_ , Captain Smith,” Brendon calls from the shadows. He’s laid out on one of the sofas in the corner, his silk robe draped artfully over his frame. Spencer knows all the tricks, but he still can’t help the way his eyes catch on the delicate shape of Brendon’s ankles. His feet are painted in henna—elegant, scrolling lines that make Spencer wonder where else Brendon might be painted. 

“ _Zǎo'ān_ ,” Spencer greets gruffly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

Brendon sits up more fully, leaning forward for the porcelain teacup on the coffee table. “Would you care to join me for tea?” he asks. There’s even something enticingly graceful about the way he pours his gorram tea. He pours a second cup before Spencer has a chance to answer, and he would have accepted anyway, so he takes a seat in the chair opposite Brendon. 

The cup must be Brendon’s, an expensive trinket that would have long been broken if it belonged to anyone on Spencer’s crew. He takes a cautious sip, but the temperature is just right: hot, but not enough to burn. The tea has to be Brendon’s as well; the rich flavour of the flower blossoms on his tongue, and he can’t help but close his eyes in pleasure. It has been ages since he’s had tea of this quality. 

“You’re up awfully early for Warren time,” Spencer notes. 

Brendon takes a long sip of his tea, moving his lips like he’s rolling the liquid on his tongue. “I don’t require much sleep to be rejuvenated.” A playful smirk curls his lips. “What is your excuse, Captain?” 

Spencer can’t help but give a tired laugh. “We’ve had to change course.” 

“I had noticed,” Brendon says graciously. “Might I inquire as to the cause?” 

Spencer takes another sip of his tea while he considers, studying Brendon for a moment. He looks guileless in his curiosity, and it isn’t that Spencer gets any feelings of unease from him. Still, there’s something about him that just feels… _off_. Like Spencer’s missing some small detail of the picture. 

“There was an Alliance blockade at Beaumonde,” Spencer says, lowering his cup. Brendon tips his head back in understanding, making a small “Ah,” noise. “But certainly they have far larger concerns than detaining a transport vessel.” 

“I wouldn’t put anything past the Alliance right now, honestly,” Spencer says. He suddenly wishes he’d slept a bit longer. “Their control is slipping and they know it, so they’re striking out at anyone they perceive to be a threat. I’d rather avoid the whole mess altogether.” 

Brendon just stares at him, as if he can see beneath Spencer’s skin. It’s disconcerting and Spencer shifts, uncomfortable. Spencer considers getting up, going back to the bridge. Before he can rise, Brendon speaks again. “At dinner, I’m afraid I must have offended your crew. I should have realised—I’m sorry if I came across the wrong way.” His big brown eyes are apologetic. 

“Oh?” Spencer prompts, leaning back into his seat. 

“It didn’t occur to me, until our hasty course change, that you might have more than a passing interest in these current events,” Brendon murmurs. “All the same, it was remarkably rude of me to make the unqualified statements that I did.” 

“And which statements would those be?” Spencer asks, his voice coming out teasing. He can’t explain why, only that something about the way Brendon speaks makes him want to smile, makes him feel flirtatious.

Brendon lowers his gaze, lashes a dark smudge against his cheek. “In retrospect, I realise that it may have seemed as though I look unkindly upon the Browncoats and former Independents.” 

“There might have been a note of derision in your voice,” Spencer says, and Brendon matches Spencer’s smile with an embarrassed twist of his lips. 

“It was not my intention,” Brendon tells him. “I was merely trying to point out that, no matter the reaction on the Rim to the Miranda message, there is little that can be done. The fact is that Independents have no rights in our government.” 

“Well, maybe that’s all about to change,” Spencer says. 

“I would not be opposed to that,” Brendon murmurs. “I myself did not participate in the Unification War, as you might have guessed. All the same, following the Battle of Serenity, as Unification came to the Border and Rim, I found myself growing weary of all the politics. Like many former Independents, I left for the Rim hoping to leave all of that behind me.” 

“And it’s just coincidence that you’re travelling to the Core now, in the wake of the Miranda broadcast?” Spencer asks. 

Brendon looks up over the rim of his cup, steam curling around his features. “Are we speaking of my intentions or yours, Captain?” Spencer arches a brow and Brendon continues, “It just seems strange to me, that you are avoiding the Alliance while heading straight for the Core.” 

“It’s business,” Spencer says. “We have to make a living somehow. Surely you must realise how difficult it is to earn a legitimate dime these days.” 

“Such ideas you and your crew seem to have about my business,” Brendon says, not unkindly, but guarded. 

“I apologise for our behaviour,” Spencer says, “we don’t often take on passengers at all, least of all ones as fancy as yourself.” 

There’s a sound from one of the crew doors opening and Spencer turns in time to see Ryan stumbling down the steps into the dining hall. He stops when he spots them, eyes flicking from Spencer to Brendon and back again, gaze cold. A feeling of cruel satisfaction curls in Spencer’s stomach. 

Ryan passes them without a word, turns on the stovetop, and begins fumbling around in the cabinets. “ _Zǎo'ān_ ,” Brendon calls to him. “We have plenty of tea to share.” 

“I prefer coffee, thank you,” Ryan says curtly. “And I’d hate to interrupt.” 

Spencer parts his lips to say something biting about how maybe Ryan should leave, then, but Brendon beats him to it. “Please, it is no interruption at all.” 

Ryan gives them a speculative look and shrugs. “Why not?” he asks, with mock cheer. There are other chairs and space on the sofa, but Ryan nudges at Spencer’s shoulder until he shifts, letting Ryan tumble into the seat beside him, thighs pressed tight together. 

Brendon looks amused by them. He licks his lips and leans forward to pour Spencer some more tea, refilling his own cup as well. “You two have been friends a long time?” he asks. 

“You could say that,” Spencer says. 

“Are your answers always so delightfully vague?” Brendon wonders, laughter in his voice. 

“It’s part of his charm,” Ryan says, giving Spencer a heavy-lidded look. Spencer knows this is just payback for last night. “So, what were you two talking about, so early in the morning?” 

Brendon sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. His robe parts, flashing a bit of his calf before he twitches the fabric back into place. Spencer catches Ryan watching from the corner of his eye. Spencer sits back in the seat, clearing his throat. “Just politics,” he mutters. 

“Yes,” Brendon agrees, “just that.” 

Ryan hums. “I thought you didn’t keep up with politics.” 

Brendon’s cheeks colour and he dips his head. “Lay off,” Spencer says in a low voice, elbowing Ryan in the ribs. 

Jon comes clambering in, making a massive amount of noise. He gives them a bleary-eyed look, scratches his stomach, and ambles over to the stove. “Ryan, how many times have I told you not to mess around in my kitchen?” 

“ _Qù nǐde_ ,” Ryan says, making an obscene gesture over his shoulder. 

Spencer gives him a dismayed look, but Brendon looks more amused than offended. “I should probably go wake Marshall; he’ll sleep all day if left to his own devices.” Brendon rises, gathering his teapot. 

“Thanks for the tea,” Spencer calls, tipping his cup towards Brendon. 

“It was my pleasure, Captain,” Brendon tells him, a smile toying at his lips. “Thank you for the most agreeable conversation.” 

Ryan waits until Brendon has disappeared down the hall to the guest quarters before levering himself onto the arm of the chair. “The ‘most agreeable conversation?’” he repeats. 

Spencer shoves him off balance, sending him toppling back into the chair on his way to the bridge. 

*

On the ship, time goes all to hell. Ryan has trouble enough keeping track of what day it is when they’re at home, on Zeus. In space, the numbers on the clock lose any kind of meaning, particularly when the next planet they land on doesn’t even remotely match up. Ryan naps a lot usually, rather than sleep the whole night through. 

In the downtime between planets when Patrick and Pete are murmuring quietly on the bridge, and Zack and Vicky are messing around in the engine room, and Spencer and Jon are in the cargo bay playing basketball, Ryan likes to climb up into the tubes that connect all the of the ship from above and curl up with whatever book he’s reading. 

Today, even though the ship is quiet save for the hum of the engine rumbling through the catwalk, Ryan can’t focus on the words. He reads the same passage a handful of times without absorbing any of it; it doesn’t help that he can’t quite keep straight which character is which, with the whole lack of names. He knows that, historically speaking, the use of names was improper, but all he can think is that it reads as really fucking pretentious. 

When he wriggles back down into the main part of the ship, dropping to the floor of the dining room, it’s to find Brendon at the table with Vicky, Patrick, and Pete, playing cards. Brendon looks vaguely surprised at him before looking back at his cards with a frown on his face. 

Since Brendon apologised at breakfast for his dinner conversation and explained himself, Pete has warmed up to him considerably. Sympathy, probably, given how often Pete sticks his own foot in his mouth. It isn’t as if any of them can fault him—Brendon’s thoughts aren’t much different than the average person’s, on the Rim. 

“Hey,” Vicky greets him, used to as she is his comings and goings from the inside of the ship. 

“Wanna join us?” Pete asks, kicking out a chair for him. 

Ryan rolls his eyes and asks, “What’s the point?” because Pete always wins, but he takes the seat anyway. 

Brendon’s eyeing his cards like they’re covered in some indecipherable code. “Can’t we just play Plums?” he says, the faintest hint of a whine in his voice. 

“Plums is boring,” Pete says dismissively. “It takes no skill.” 

“Skill?” Brendon echoes. “ _This_ game is pure luck.” 

“Brendon, Brendon,” Pete says, shaking his head in disappointment. “Have I taught you nothing?” 

Brendon’s lips twist up in dismay but he pushes some of his credits toward the pile in the middle and says, “Hit me.” Pete deals him a ten and Brendon’s face falls. 

“Poker face, man, what have I told you?” Pete admonishes. He turns to Vicky who taps her cards and adds her credits to the pot. 

Patrick waves dismissively, tossing his cards aside. “I’m out.” 

Brendon shakes his head but he calls. Vicky shakes her head, sitting back in her seat with arms crossed. Pete flips his hole-card, revealing a score of twenty. He gives Brendon a cocky grin and Brendon, blank-faced, turns up his hole card. Alongside the ten, the three, and the six he’s been hit with, he’s got a two. Pete’s face falls as Brendon’s lights up with a smile and he sweeps all the credit towards him. 

“Beginner’s luck,” Pete says, though his smile isn’t as smug as it was a few seconds ago. He deals them all in and Ryan steals some of Vicky’s credits to throw in the pot. 

Five hands later, the vast majority of their credits are in Brendon’s possession and Pete looks a little devastated. “You—you were totally playing me,” he accuses. 

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees easily. “But you were _trying_ to play me.” 

Patrick, Vicky, and Ryan dissolve into laughter and Pete gets up, cursing good-naturedly on his way out of the dining hall. “Dude, that was awesome,” Patrick tells Brendon, reaching out to give him a high five before following Pete out. 

“I’ve gotta tell Zack,” Vicky says, expression downright giddy. _No one_ beats Pete. “We should stage a rematch later so everyone can watch.” She practically skips down toward the engine room, calling Zack’s name. 

“Did you…” Ryan looks at the cards visible on the table and pauses. “Were you…counting?” Brendon arches a brow. “You’ve got to teach me.” 

Brendon gathers the cards, shuffling the deck like some fancy dealer on Persephone. “What are you reading?” he asks as he fans the cards out and sweeps them back in all in one fluid motion. 

Ryan flips the data pad over in a strange fit of insecurity. “ _Tale of the Genji_ ,” he says, tapping at the buttons to clear the screen. “It’s a novel from Japan of Earth-That-Was.” Brendon nods knowingly and Ryan asks, “You’ve heard of it?” 

“It is a beautiful work of literature,” Brendon says. “Depending upon the translation.” 

“Yeah, well, apparently I picked the wrong translation,” Ryan says. “Which one did you read?” 

“Oh, one of the Japanese versions,” Brendon says offhandedly. He laughs and wrinkles his nose, and Ryan catches himself staring. Brendon is sort of ridiculously beautiful when he’s happy. “I tried reading the original first. I could read the words individually, but together they made no sense at all.” 

“You know Japanese?” Ryan asks. Brendon intrigues him—no doubt it is something that Brendon has learned to do, in his trade, but Ryan is surprised to find himself susceptible to it. 

“My mother was very interested in the languages of Earth-That-Was,” Brendon says, by way of explanation. “If you like, I have several different English versions of _Genji_. We might see if there is one more suited to you?” 

Ryan shrugs. “I don’t know; it’s all so melodramatic. If I roll my eyes much harder, I might sustain permanent damage.” 

Brendon giggles, a fleeting, coy sound. “I suppose the romance is not for everyone.” 

“Romance? Genji’s a _huàidàn_ ,” Ryan says, and Brendon giggles again. “Okay, I wasn’t being literal. How is it romantic, the way he seduces women—entering their homes unbidden, kidnapping them?” 

“He cannot be with his true love,” Brendon says, looking down at the cards as he shuffles them. 

“So he takes her ten-year-old niece?” Ryan demands. 

Brendon lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “On Sihnon, Companions begin training at age twelve.” 

“Yeah, but not in love play,” Ryan says. Brendon purses his lips, and Ryan can’t tell if it is in annoyance or thought. He wonders how old Brendon was, when he took his first client. 

Spencer comes in from the crew hall, wearing his biggest, brightest smile, aimed at Brendon. “Did you really beat Pete at Blackjack?” 

“Brendon’s teaching us how to count cards,” Ryan says, looking away from Spencer to frown distractedly at the table. 

“Seriously?” Spencer says, dropping into the seat on Brendon’s other side. “Where the hell did you learn that?” 

“My older brother, Matthew, was a…precocious child,” Brendon says, choosing his words carefully. Ryan wonders, briefly, if Brendon is ever unguarded. No doubt another result of his profession. “He tricked his maths tutor into teaching him, and felt it his brotherly duty to teach it to the rest of us.” 

Ryan is intensely curious to know more about how a boy who grew up learning the language arts and with tutors became a whore on the Rim. 

“Any other unique skills we should know about?” Spencer asks, and Ryan marvels at the teasing tone of it, especially since he knows Spencer doesn’t realise how it sounds. 

“Oh, Captain, you have no idea,” Brendon says, eyes downcast. Spencer’s eyes widen as his brain plays catch up and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

Ryan chews on his tongue, struggling to keep the displeasure from his face. Spencer is jealous enough for the both of them. “Are you going to teach us?” he asks, proud of how light his voice comes out. 

Brendon deals the cards. “Basically,” he begins, “each card has a value. For our purposes, we’ll use either plus one for two through six, minus one for ten through Ace, or zero for seven, eight and nine. Since low cards increase the count, the higher the count, the more likely you are to be dealt a high card.” 

The lesson lasts maybe an hour before Brendon gives up, declaring them incompetent. They end up playing Plums after all, until Jon comes in to make dinner. Ryan is surprised by the time that has passed, distracted as he’s been by Brendon and Spencer. Then Brendon is off to gather Marshall, hips swaying beneath the fabric of his robes. Ryan watches Spencer watch him go. 

*

It’s late summer on the southern hemisphere of Verbena, the afternoon sun bright golden on the sand where they’ve landed. A breeze comes in from the south, whipping through the long ends of Brendon’s gwazi coat, sending them rippling behind him. He lets his eyes fall closed, luxuriating in the feel of the heat on his skin. It was winter in Warren, and it’s been at least two years since Brendon has been on a desert planet. 

“Don’t wander too far,” Spencer says, and Brendon detects a note of worry in his voice. 

The town is only a short way off, a small collection of low-slung buildings that looks like every other backwater frontier settlement on every other distant moon. Three men approach them on horseback, dust rising into the sky behind them. Jon has identified the one in lead as Brent Wilson, magistrate of this fine land. 

Ryan strides forward to greet them with a grim look on his face, and Brendon starts when a gunshot cracks the air, whizzing past them into the distance. “ _Liú kǒu shuǐ de biǎo zi hé hóu zi de bèn ér zi_!” Ryan shouts, producing a gun from a holster on his hip that Brendon hadn’t even noticed before now. 

“Are we in danger?” Alex asks, eyes wide. 

“Nah,” Jon says, chuckling. “If anyone’s in danger, it’s Brent and his guys.” 

Brendon watches, muscles tensed for action, as Ryan, Spencer, and Vicky meet the riders. The anxiety for their safety is unexpected; it must stem from his concern for making it to Sihnon. If the crew of the _Nevada_ are wounded, he will be delayed even further. 

Vicky moves so quickly Brendon has trouble following her movements. One moment Brent is seated atop his mare, the next he’s on the ground at her feet, Vicky’s shotgun aimed at his head. Brendon is grudgingly impressed. 

“These people are your friends?” he asks, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice. 

“Brent was in the same division as Spence and Ryan during the war. Owes his life to Ryan, as a matter of fact,” Jon explains. 

“And this is how he shows his gratitude?” Brendon wonders. The raised voices have died down and Vicky allows the man to his feet. 

“Brent likes to remember his debts when it’s convenient to him.” 

Captain Smith turns to them, gesturing toward the town. Jon nods and says, “We’re good.” He jumps onto his transport and offers a hand up to Brendon. “Want a lift?” Brendon takes the hand while Alex climbs in the back. 

Brent’s town, Summerland, is composed of one single main street with a general store, a library, town hall, and three saloons. Jon heads to the shop to collect foodstuffs and Brendon leads Alex to the most expensive looking of the saloons. The looks they receive are openly hungry and contemptuous, sometimes from the same person.

Brendon bats his lashes at the bartender and secures them a private booth in the back. Once the holo-curtains have fallen in place, effectively silencing the noise from without, Alex produces Brendon’s interface. 

Any messages received go straight to his server, but accessing them on the ship would be to invite trouble. He saves the messages from Shane for later; they are of a personal nature, unimportant to the mission at hand. Shane has played his necessary role for the time being, though Brendon looks forward to spending time with him again, when this whole mess has been cleaned up. 

Cash has sent an update on his position near Delphi, as well as the positions of two Alliance cruisers to avoid between Kalidasa and the Core. “If the Captain attempts to follow—as best he can—his original course, he’ll try heading between Heaven and Whittier,” Alex says, plotting out the course on his data pad. 

Brendon glances up from Cash’s message, nodding his approval at the course Alex has predicted. Though young and with little formal education, Alex is very bright, and learning quickly. Alex taps on Delphi, bringing it to the forefront of the map and plotting Cash’s location from the coordinates in his message. 

“If he were to find a way to reroute the _Nevada_ past Aberdeen we would cut down our travel time by three days and avoid both of the cruisers,” Alex muses. 

“I’ll message him,” Brendon says. “Cash works best with minimal direction.” 

He is just finishing his missive when the screen flashes with an incoming call. He sends the message off and taps the picture of Gerard in the upper corner, bringing it to full screen, and answers. 

Brendon is used to seeing Gerard in public, when they are both dressed in the trappings of their profession. Gerard still looks startlingly pretty out of makeup, with his hair falling messily around his face. He’s seated in bed, his sheets pulled up high on his bare chest. Just behind him, Brendon can make out Frank’s form curled against his side. 

“Did you just wake?” Brendon asks, not trying to keep the amusement from his voice. 

Gerard waves his hand distractedly. “I set an alarm to signal me when you were on.” He frowns and squints at his screen. “You’re on Verbena?” 

“We had some difficulty finding a vessel headed anywhere remotely near to Sihnon,” Brendon says. “There is no cause for concern. With a bit of help from our friends I should be on Londinium in under two weeks.” 

Gerard nods, rubbing his face. “Mikey’s speaking before the assembly on Wednesday. Some of our candidates from Quin Long have been out of contact for most of the week. It’s a safe bet they didn’t make it out of the area in time—either because of the Reavers or the Alliance presence. Right now we’re depending on you, so don’t get yourself caught or killed, okay?” 

Brendon cracks a smile. “I’ll do my best. You doing okay?” 

“Frankie and Mikes are in manic mode right now,” Gerard says around a yawn. “Ross is scrambling to cover his _pìgu_ , and the more time that passes without action, the easier it’s going to be, for him. Mikey’s hoping we can get his kid up there in his place.” 

“His kid? I thought his son was kidnapped by the Independents during the war,” Brendon says. “They declared him dead. If he’s not, where has he been, and why would he be sympathetic to us?” 

“I don’t know,” Gerard says. “That’s Mikey’s area of expertise. I’ve been working on making sure he has the support he needs within Parliament. All I do know is that George Ross the Third is on his way here now, and he’s not coming to help his father. If things work out for Mikey and Ray at the assembly and with certain members of the Privy, the Judicial Committee is going to be passing judgement before the month is out, and elections will be the first weekend of April.” 

Brendon can’t stop his stomach clenching in anticipation and there’s something terrifyingly like joy threatening to swell up in him. He pushes it back down viciously. Too many times he’s gotten his hopes up over the turning of the state of things in this Verse, and each time he’s been disappointed. 

None of it means anything until the Judicial Committee makes a decision, and even then, elections aren’t going to go smoothly. He has never been so foolish as to think that change is easy, but at least this time it is possible. 

“Brendon, this is big,” Gerard says, in a gentle voice. “Someone’s going to be sacrificed, and the Privy know it.” 

“Of course,” Brendon agrees, voice neutral. He just isn’t as optimistic as Mikey and Gerard about whom that sacrifice will be. “I should go before our absence raises any questions. I will most likely be out of contact until I arrive upon Londinium.” 

“Just be careful,” Gerard says, and Brendon knows that Gerard means it as a friend, not only as someone depending upon him for his political connections. 

Frank snuggles closer to Gerard, shoving his hand in the general direction of the screen and mumbles something that sounds like, “Don’t get dead, Bden.” 

Brendon chuckles fondly. “Thanks, Frank,” he says, and presses his fingers to his lips before pressing them to the screen over Gerard’s mouth. Gerard repeats the gesture, fingers meeting Brendon’s. The call ends, returning the screen to his conversation with Cash. 

There is a new message from Cash, saying only, _if its a detour you want its a detour you got :D_. Brendon shakes his head at the appalling grammar and clears the message from his screen before powering the interface down. 

“I thought you said he was a Companion,” Alex says, as he’s repacking the interface in his bag. “He didn’t much seem like one.” 

Brendon tips his head concession. “Gerard was in my dorm at the training house, a few years ahead of me. He was a very promising student—most skilled in the arts, a stunning artist and performer. I think he romanticised what it was we were being trained to do. He hadn’t joined by choice, but made the most of his parent’s decision. When he took his first client, the two of them fell desperately in love, and to save Gerard from the potential shame of it, Frank took him on as his personal Companion.” 

“Why didn’t Gerard just leave the Guild?” Alex asks, a frown marring his pretty features. Brendon reaches out to smooth it away absently. 

“To leave at such a young age would have irreparably damaged Gerard’s reputation, and while he did not care about himself, it would have affected Mikey politically, as well,” Brendon explains. 

Gerard does not care for appearances, but he is remarkably selfless when it comes to his loved ones. It has earned Brendon’s loyalty, and that of many other Companions, as well. “When he reaches a mature age, he will retire from the Guild, and then I have no doubt he and Frank will cause a huge scandal by being wed.” 

A tiny smile curls Alex’s lips. “I thought you said romance has no place in a Companion’s life.” 

“It certainly doesn’t. Gerard’s example is not one to be followed,” Brendon reprimands. “He is a wonderful man, but as a Companion, he failed utterly.” 

“I doubt he and Frank would think so,” Alex says, an edge of playful antagonism to his voice. Brendon silences him with a sharp look and Alex turns his gaze to his hands, contrite. 

“Come along,” Brendon says, and draws back the curtains from their booth. 

In the main barroom, most of the crew of the _Nevada_ have taken over a billiards table. Jon spots them and waves them over. Pete looks up from where he’s lining up his shot to give Brendon a wary look. “You’re not some pool shark, too, are you?” 

Brendon hides a smile behind the sleeve of his jacket. “I have some skill at the game,” he says. 

“We’ll see,” Pete mutters, eyeing him up and down. “You can play winner.” He turns his attention back to his shot and sinks the twelve ball. 

“Come have a drink,” Ryan beckons, from his observational perch at the sidebar. “What are you having? Let me guess, something exotic.” There’s an easiness to him that Brendon attributes to the whiskey in his hand. “A _jiàng júhuā_?”

“That sounds delightful,” Brendon says, taking the seat at Ryan’s side. 

“Marshall?” Ryan prompts, halfway to bar. 

Alex gives him a wide-eyed look. “Oh. No, I don’t. I’m not. Ginger water is fine.” 

Ryan gives him a speculative look and Jon claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“Marshall, is it possible that you’ve never had an _alcoholic beverage_?” Jon asks, voice ridiculously low. Alex blushes and looks to Brendon, who smiles and shrugs. 

“My village on Regina was small and very religious,” Alex explains. “There were no saloons there.” 

“That’s just tragic,” Zack says, in a very solemn voice. 

“It really is,” Jon agrees, shaking his head in mock dismay. “We’re like, morally obligated to do something about it. Come, young disciple.” 

Alex tosses a concerned look over his shoulder as they lead him to the bar and Brendon gives him a reassuring wave. “Be gentle with the boy for his first time,” he calls after them. 

Ryan returns with his drink, which looks out of place in its elegant flute, garnished in imitation fruit. More than anything Brendon looks forward to the fresh fruit available on the Core planets. Ryan leans back against the sidebar where Captain Smith’s arm rests. It’s obvious that neither man is conscious of their position, or the way the Captain’s fingers curl around Ryan’s ribs in a subtly possessive gesture. Brendon glances away before he calls attention to it. 

“That was an exciting display earlier,” he comments. He sips from his flute, looking at them from the corner of his eye. 

“Never a dull day around us,” Ryan says. His head lulls to the side, resting on the Captain’s shoulder. The Captain lays his cheek momentarily to Ryan’s hair, his attention never straying from the game. Vicky is catching up to Pete, sinking two balls in one shot. 

“You fought together with the Magistrate in the war, Jon said,” Brendon says, intonation rising. 

“It was a long time ago,” the Captain says curtly. 

“Spence,” Ryan murmurs. 

“I’m sorry, Captain. It seems as though I can’t stop offending you,” Brendon says. He curses his own curiosity, unnecessary in this case, and potentially dangerous. 

“You didn’t—it isn’t offensive,” the Captain says, frowning. “Just. You know, some things are better kept in the past.” Brendon nods gravely. He knows few people eager to speak of their experiences in the war; there are hospitals on Ariel still filled with Veterans who haven’t been the same since. 

“Look,” Captain Smith says, and sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, sending it into disarray. It shines brightly under the dim lights of the bar’s chandelier. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. And seriously, you’ve got to quit calling me Captain. The crew only calls me that when they’re being smart.” Brendon nods again. “Spencer’s fine.” 

“Spencer,” Brendon says, trying it out. It’s a more sophisticated name than usually heard outside of the Core, with more history. 

Pete lets out a victorious cry and Vicky slams her cue down on the table with so much force, Brendon is surprised it doesn’t break. He doesn’t think he’d want to piss her off, but Pete gets up in her face, crowing loudly. Vicky obviously pulls the punch she delivers to his shoulder, but Pete’s face still goes white with pain. He’s rubbing his arm when he comes over to them. 

“Ready for this?” he asks Brendon, expression cocky. 

Ryan rolls his eyes and Spencer says, “Kick his _pìgu_ , Brendon, please.” 

Brendon takes the cue Pete offers him. “ _Lèyìde_.” 

*

They return to the ship late in the evening, Vicky, Spencer, and Jon loading up their purchased goods while the others prepare for departure. Brendon pours Alex into bed, making certain he has plenty of water at his bedside before closing the door to his room of the suite. 

In his own room, he turns on his music box, scanning through his play list for a moment before making his selection. Elgar’s Cello Concerto rises gently from the speakers. Gerard thought it too sad, but Brendon has always been quite fond of it, whether he is playing it or listening to it. 

He changes into his favourite brocade caftan and sits at the vanity with a basin of warm water, washing away the sweat and sand from his exposed skin. Though he has long since grown accustomed to life on the Rim, he can’t help but long for the Great House on Sihnon. He still fondly remembers his suite there with its feather bed and sunken mosaic tub. The mere thought of sinking into the hot, scented water makes him moan in pleasure. 

The warmth of the Verbena sun has made him pleasantly drowsy and the cooling water feels nice against the heated skin of his cheek as he cleans away his makeup. His mind wanders, randomly settling on the image of Spencer and Ryan standing close together in their display of oblivious, casual intimacy. Something like arousal sparks low in Brendon’s stomach and he stares at his reflection in blank surprise. 

Clearly, the alcohol and heat have gone to his head. Brendon has taken a fair few male clients, but by and large he prefers female companionship. Certainly he has never coveted male attention. 

It is, no doubt, the result of his long sabbatical from the Guild, the erotic nature of his relationship with Alex, the fact that he has not had engaged in the act of love play in over two years. His body is a weak thing. He needs some activity to centre himself. He considers playing his guitar, which brings him the most pleasure, but he knows that meditation will be more helpful. 

He rises, lighting the incense and candles on his shrine before lowering into full lotus, hands folded over his stomach in _mudra_. He takes a deep breath, settling into _zuò chán_ , eyelids lowered, and clears his mind of any troubling thoughts, concentrating on nothing. 

*

At first it’s a sound like someone banging pots together in the dining hall, and a gentle rocking motion. Spencer sits up straight on his bunk and scrambles up the ladder to the bridge. Several more explosions sound on the way, each stronger than the last, threatening to tip Spencer off his feet. 

“What, exactly, was that?” Spencer says carefully. 

Patrick cringes, rechecking his settings like that’s going to change anything. The view screen shows nothing but empty space stretching off into infinity, dotted with distant stars. 

“Is it what I think it is?” Spencer asks, hands on hips. 

Ryan comes stumbling onto the bridge, rubbing his elbow. There’s a gash on his forehead and Spencer swallows hard, fighting the urge to tend to it right away. There are a few more important things at the moment. Ryan seems fine, anyway, demanding, “ _Zhè shì shénme làn dōngxī_?”

“Is that a mine field?” Spencer says. “Did you just drive my ship into a gorram mine field?” 

Patrick scowls, focussing on his controls. “Do you _see_ any mines?” he snaps. “Because they didn’t show up on scans and I sure as hell don’t see them out there, so I’d like to know how you would’ve done any different.” 

Spencer bites his tongue against the impulse to lash out at Patrick. “Alright, so what do you propose we do about this?” 

“Nav-sat readings from six hours ago show that passage to Aberdeen is clear,” Pete says. “No noise on this at all.” 

“What the hell is going on? How is there an entire invisible mine field out here that no one knows about?” Spencer asks, bewildered. 

“We’re gonna have to go by Aberdeen,” Patrick says, mouth a grim line. “If we get out of this in one piece.” 

“Patrick,” Spencer says, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice, “please don’t say shit like that.” 

Patrick mutters something under his breath and pulls back on the thrust and switches the controls to manual. 

“How are you supposed to steer us out of here if you can’t see anything?” Ryan asks, voice wild. 

“Ryan,” Pete hisses, “ _Bìzuǐ_!”

“There are seventeen makes of mine-laying vessel currently active, each of them with a variety of patterns,” Patrick says slowly, one hand on the steering column while the other dances over his keyboard. “If you figure the speed of our travel and the interval between explosions, you can calculate the distance between the mines. From that, you can extrapolate the pattern.” 

Pete gives them a smug look. “My man’s kind of a genius.” 

Patrick ignores them, turning about. There’s another explosion somewhere near the aft side. “Can you try not doing that?” Spencer cries. 

“Captain,” Patrick says, sweat beading on his brow, “I would gladly switch you places, if you think you can do better.” 

“Right, carry on,” Spencer mutters, clinging to the back of Patrick’s chair. There are a few dull clangs and Spencer braces for the ensuing explosion, but none comes. 

“Some of the mines seem to be dead,” Patrick notes distractedly. His shoulders are set high and tense as he works the manual controls in a series of complicated motions. 

“Captain,” Zack calls over the comm., “you need to stop blowing up my ship.” Under his usual calm, even tone, Spencer can detect an edge of concern. 

“Would everyone get the fuck off my bridge?” Patrick snaps. 

Spencer bites his lip, studying Patrick’s screen. Pete gets up from his seat, waving his hands in dismissal. He all but shoves Spencer off the bridge, ignoring his sputtered protests. Ryan goes along more easily, watching with vague amusement. Pete slides the door closed after them, turning the lock with a click. 

“Now,” Pete calls through the glass, “I recommend that you stay away for a good long while. After he gets us out of this, I’m going to have to reward him for his troubles.” 

“Oh my god,” Spencer mutters, turning away. “Ryan, would you get down to the infirmary. I’ll be there in a minute.” 

In the engine room Zack and Vicky are dodging back and forth, wielding a spanner and welder respectively. “ _wò kao_ are you _hùndàn_ doing to my ship?” Zack grunts, the top half of his body disappearing into the depths of the engine. 

“Just a little mine field, nothing to worry yourself about,” Spencer calls out to him, almost believing it himself. There haven’t been any explosions since he left the bridge. Spencer very strongly believes in Patrick’s skill, but it’s _invisible mines_. “So…is everything good down here?” 

Zack settles back on his feet, giving Spencer a disbelieving look. “Well, that second burst of explosions knocked out our inertial dampening systems. How the _fuck_ do you think the ship’s going to take re-entering a planet’s atmosphere like that? You’re lucky the gorram modulation frequency for the shields hasn’t completely crapped out on us. Propulsion is down by a good thirty percent, so if you want us to even _think_ about reaching max speed anytime soon, you better make sure we’re clear of those gorram mines. 

“Fuck owing me a new compression coil. With the damage you seem to want to keep putting her through, I’ll need a completely new ship by the time we’ve reached the core.” 

“So…” Spencer repeats. “Everything’s good down here?” 

Vicky gives him a menacing look, which is only made scarier by the welder she’s tapping against her open palm. Zack just arches a brow. “Okay. Should be clear of the mine field in a few minutes,” Spencer says, clapping his hands together. “Don’t let her blow up.” 

He scurries out before either of them can resort to violence. The infirmary is just off the main cargo bay and the lounge. They keep it stocked, though they rarely use it. The _Nevada_ doesn’t have a medic; they haven’t ever needed one in their trade. Spencer, Pete, and Ryan picked up enough on the battlefield to get them by in the case of accidents. 

Alex is laid out on one of the beds, icepack to his skull. Brendon is at Ryan’s side, gently dabbing at his wound with the antiseptic. When Spencer steps inside, Brendon’s eyes dart to him and back to Ryan. “That was fun,” he says, taking away the bloodied gauze. 

“Just some mild turbulence in the shape of a mine field,” Spencer says lightly, though his heart is beating fast at the sight off all the blood streaming down Ryan’s cheek and neck, matting the hair at his temple. 

Brendon gives him a look of mingled amusement and incredulity. “Do you have surgical sutures?” he asks. He jabs a hypodermic into a bottle of Lidocaine and eases it gently into the skin of Ryan’s temple. 

Ryan doesn’t make a sound, but Spencer can read the tightness around his mouth and eyes that says he’s in pain. Spencer hurries into action, going through several of the drawers lining the wall before finding the kit.

“So, you count cards, read ancient Earth-That-Was literature in various languages, and practice medicine,” Ryan says.

Spencer places the kit on the tray at Brendon’s elbow. Brendon pauses, staring blankly at the kit. Spencer frowns down at it, but can’t see what’s got his attention. It’s the same suture kit available at any pharmacy on any world, mass-produced by Blue Sun. Their symbol is stamped on the plain white box. 

“I was the youngest of a large family,” Brendon says, after a long moment. He shakes his head, snapping open the kit and selecting one of the smaller swaged kits. “One of my brothers is a medic. I picked up a few things.” 

Spencer watches him nervously. “Usually I do the patching up around here,” he says, as Brendon pushes Ryan’s shoulder back, urging him to recline. Ryan watches him anxiously, but goes down without complaint. 

“Yes,” Brendon agrees. He tugs at Ryan’s loose collar, exposing the skin of his upper chest and the ragged scar there. “I suppose this is your handy work?” 

Ryan gives him an annoyed look, tugging his shirt back into place. “Okay, seriously, I do not need some pissing contest over who’s going to sew me up,” he says grumpily. “Just. Spencer, I trust him.” 

Spencer doesn’t know why that brings him up short, except that Ryan is slow to trust anyone, and Brendon’s barely been around two days. He conveys his doubt through a look and Ryan arches a brow, lips pursed pissily, as if to say, “Like you don’t?” 

Brendon does the job quickly and neatly. He leaves a row of tiny, evenly spaced stitches before covering the edges in liquid adhesive. “Alright?” he asks Ryan, his expression soft. 

Ryan gives him a quick grin. “I think I’ll live.” 

“You alright, Marshall?” Spencer asks, now that Ryan is squared away. 

Marshall’s skin is pale under the harsh infirmary lights, but he nods his head. His voice is weak when he speaks. “Just a little bump.” 

“There was some swelling, but I’ve healed the damage,” Brendon dismisses. “You said there was a mine field? I take it that we are free from it?” 

Spencer shakes his head. “Free for now. We’ve had to change course again, though, towards Aberdeen.” 

“What an exciting life you all must live—Alliance blockades, mysterious mine fields,” Brendon murmurs. 

“It’s usually a lot more boring,” Ryan assures him. He stands and sways on his feet. Brendon catches him with an arm around his waist. 

“Perhaps you should lie here for a while,” Brendon says gently, helping him back onto the bed. Ryan pulls an annoyed face and Spencer hides his own smile, relieved. If Ryan’s well enough to be obstinate, then he’ll be fine. 

“I can lie down in my own room,” he protests. 

“Just for bit,” Brendon insists. “Head wounds can be tricky. If you’re bored, I can bring you some of the novels I have.” 

Ryan’s eyes light up at the suggestion and Spencer shifts, uncomfortable all of the sudden, with how closely Brendon is standing at Ryan’s bedside, and way his hand lingers at Ryan’s shoulder. He has to clamp his mouth tightly shut to keep from reminding Brendon what he’d said about no sleeping with the crew. 

“What have you got?” Ryan asks. He rolls on his side to face Brendon, lips turning up in a smile that looks unfamiliar on his face. 

“What would you like?” Brendon says. His smile echoes Ryan’s, something oddly private. 

They really don’t need Spencer around anymore. He backs out of the infirmary, looking away. “I’m gonna go check on Zack and Vicky. Let me know if anything changes.” 

Ryan barely glances in his direction, wriggling his fingers in goodbye. 

*

Brendon has this amazing collection of literature, from dozens of planets, and in dozens of languages, including an impressive number from Earth-That-Was. Ryan hasn’t even heard of a vast majority of those. He reads through a novel by a man named Ray Bradbury and one by Chuck Palahniuk before leaving the infirmary, and as soon as he’s out, he’s at Brendon’s door. 

When Brendon answers, Ryan momentarily forgets his purpose in coming. Brendon is dressed casually in a loose caftan and his face is free of makeup. Yet somehow he looks even more striking than usual because of it. 

“Ryan,” Brendon greets with a warm smile. He steps back to allow Ryan inside. “Did you enjoy the novels?” 

Ryan remembers his voice, looking away, around the room. They’ve decorated it so it looks like it belongs in some classy teahouse, rather than on their rundown boat. “Yeah, they were so _shuài_ —I’ve never—you’d never find that sort of novel in the Core!” 

He realises what he’s said a second after the words leave his lips, catches Brendon’s curious frown. “Anyway,” he ploughs on, hoping Brendon won’t comment, “I was hoping I could borrow some more?” 

Brendon gives him a considering look before kneeling at his trunk. He lifts the lid to reveal colourful fabrics and embroidered cases. “A great deal of my collection is not readily available at most libraries and bookshops.” 

“Where did you _find_ them?” Ryan asks, dropping down to sit beside him. His heart is still beating a little fast, waiting for Brendon to ask about the Core. It isn’t that he’s worried that Brendon will make the connection, but he’s so used to guarding that part of himself that it’s shocking to him he’s allowed it to slip. 

“Some of them were part of my family’s collection, some of them were gifts from customers.” Brendon pulls out a slender leather case and snaps it open, revealing row after row of data cards. “Since leaving home I’ve been working my way through them. There is a lot of down time, vesselside.” 

Ryan nods his agreement, eyeing the cards hungrily. “I’ve never read anything like those ones you gave me.” 

“Pretty shocking, I know,” Brendon agrees, a far away smile on his face. “I don’t think my parents knew what half of them were. They probably would have had my hide if they’d known what I was reading.” 

“Do you ever wonder what it was like, back there?” Ryan asks, tracing the pattern of Brendon’s rug with his index finger. 

“I imagine it wasn’t much different than life here,” Brendon says, something sad about his tone. “If these novels are any indication, it was still all corrupt governments controlling every aspect of a person’s life. Lots of poor people struggling just to get by.” 

Ryan looks up at him in surprise. Granted, he doesn’t know the guy that well, but it just doesn’t _sound_ like Brendon. He tips his head to meet Brendon’s gaze, wonders how much of what Brendon has shown them has anything to do with what actually goes on in his head. 

“That’s a pretty depressing thought,” Ryan says hesitantly. 

“Yeah, well,” Brendon answers. He blinks and looks at Ryan as if just noticing his presence. He draws out a few cards, the titles scrawled on them in neat cursive. “If you liked those ones, you’ll probably like these, too.” 

Ryan takes them, tucking them carefully into his pocket. He wants to say something else, but he has no idea _what_. All that’s coming to mind is an explanation of what he said, about the Core, and it doesn’t make any sense. Besides the fact that his family history makes him an unpopular person among those trying to avoid the Alliance, Ryan doesn’t like dwelling on the history. 

He puts his hand on Brendon’s shoulder, opening his mouth without any idea of what’s going to come out. Brendon gives him a cheerful smile. “When you’re finished with those, I have plenty more I’m certain you’ll enjoy.” He gets to his feet and Ryan scrambles to do the same. 

“Yeah, thank you.” Ryan shifts awkwardly. He still wants to say something, but Brendon goes to open the door, and Ryan already feels like an idiot. “See you at dinner.” 

*

By the time they gather in the dining hall, Brendon appears to be himself again, composed and distant. His makeup is flawless and he’s dressed in a colourful kimono, the front knot done up elaborately. 

He is mostly silent throughout dinner, barely eating any of the seafood dish Jon has made. Ryan’s gaze keeps straying to him, vaguely concerned. 

After dinner Vicky, Zack, and Jon challenge Spencer, Ryan, and Pete to three-on-three in the cargo hold. Marshall, having expressed some interest in piloting, is whisked off to the bridge by Patrick. Brendon follows the rest of them down to the lower level of the ship, lounging on the catwalk. 

The _Nevada_ ’s version of basketball is a full contact sport that generally results in a lot of shoving, biting, and bruising, and surprisingly few balls put through hoops. Vicky is not above tackling Ryan even when he doesn’t have the ball, and by a half-hour in, Ryan has to beg off, his head throbbing near his stitches. 

He drops down beside Brendon on the catwalk, nudging his shoulder. “You wanna jump in for me?” 

Brendon gives him a politely incredulous look. “Um, no,” he says, at length. “Sports aren’t really my strong point.” 

“What is your strong point, then?” Ryan asks. 

“Why Ryan,” Brendon purrs, and bats his lashes, “are you propositioning me?” 

Ryan’s cheeks heat and he drops his chin to his chest, laughing. “Come on. Seriously.” 

“I don’t know.” Brendon smoothes his hands over the fabric stretched across his knees. “I enjoy music most, of all my skills. I have often had clients ask me to perform for them musically.” 

“Yeah?” Ryan is even more curious now. “Like, piano, or guitar, or what?” 

“Both of those,” Brendon says, nodding his head. “Others, as well. And voice.” He glances at Ryan from the corner of his eye. “I could perform for the crew, if you would like.” 

“Yeah?” Ryan says again, perking up. He’s never been much good with music himself, but he’s always loved listening. “You totally should.” 

“I—” Brendon gets to his knees. “Allow me to get my instrument.” He pads off quickly and Ryan cups his hands around his mouth, calling down for the others to take a break. 

It’s probably for the best, he notes, when they come up the stairs. Pete has a black eye, Jon has a split lip, and Vicky has a friction burn down her arm. Spencer doesn’t show any obvious physical damage, but the way he’s carrying himself suggests he’s in much the same shape. 

Brendon finds them in the lounge, nursing drinks mixed by Jon. He unrolls his keyboard, laying it out over the table, playing a few notes and adjusting the volume. His licks his lips in a nervous gesture and begins to play a Hera folk song. When he begins to sing, his voice is soft and deep, growing stronger as he goes on. 

There is something sweetly unschooled about Brendon’s voice—he sings on pitch, and with a richness that speaks of skill, and yet it sounds fresh and innocent. When his voice goes low, a shiver shoots down Ryan’s spine. Brendon’s eyes are closed, his face open and as vulnerable as his voice. 

Ryan glances at the others. Vicky, Jon, and Zack are smiling gently, and Pete looks downright entranced. Spencer has a thoughtful expression on his face, as if he’s been studying Brendon and just discovered some essential piece to the puzzle. 

After he finishes his first song, Brendon plays one at Jon’s insistence. The two of them sing together, Vicky joining in on the chorus. It isn’t a song with which Ryan is familiar—something from Jon’s home on Greenleaf. 

Patrick and Marshall join them, brought by Brendon’s carrying voice. Marshall runs off to their quarters and comes back with a guitar. He takes Brendon’s place at the piano and Brendon joins him on the guitar. When Patrick sings with him, their voices blend beautifully. They playfully challenge one another with increasingly difficult harmonies, taking turns with the guitar.

The longer they play, the more open Brendon’s face becomes, the easier his laughter. It is captivating to see. There is real passion in his playing, and an almost painful yearning behind his voice, as if music, and through someone else’s words, is the only way he can truly express himself. Just as with every other talent Brendon has exhibited over the past few days, this one makes Ryan wonder how it came to pass that Brendon is a whore.

Ryan grows lethargic watching, letting his eyes dip closed. Spencer is pressed up close beside him on the sofa, arm along the back. His fingers brush against Ryan’s shoulder, finding bare skin under his short sleeve. Ryan fights a shiver at the touch and leans more firmly into Spencer’s side, laying his cheek against Spencer’s heartbeat. 

“Feels like they’ve been here forever,” Spencer murmurs, so softly that Ryan can barely hear him. 

It’s true; they’ve taken plenty of passengers over the years, and never before has the crew connected with them so quickly. Ryan’s pretty sure he’s never seen Patrick talk to a passenger, much less engage in a cheerful musical showdown with one, or let one set foot on his bridge. 

Usually the passengers keep to themselves after the first day or so. Ryan knows that the crew is odd by most people’s standards, even outside of the Core. It isn’t that often they find others who fit well with them. 

He thinks it might have something to do with Marshall’s easy-going attitude and Brendon’s secrets. There’s more to Brendon, and Ryan respects that. The entire crew does. They all have their own secrets, complicated histories, enough baggage to fill seven ships. 

For a moment, Ryan almost regrets what they’re doing. There might be mine fields and surprise Alliance cruisers and unfriendly magistrates, but there is also this feeling of peace that he gets only on the _Nevada_ , among his friends. And now they’ve found Brendon and Marshall, who could possibly become friends, too, maybe join their little family, only that isn’t going to happen. 

Ryan knows it’s time to grow up. He just isn’t sure he’s ready for it. He sometimes wonders if he’s even capable. Spencer squeezes his arm, like he knows what he’s thinking. For a brief second, it feels as though Spencer’s pressing a kiss into his hair. Ryan smiles into Spencer’s shirt, and lets Brendon and Patrick’s voice lull him into a light sleep. 

*

Brendon is listless and filled with disquiet, and he has no idea why. Thanks to Cash’s ridiculous and somewhat terrifying distraction, they are on course to Aberdeen. The _Cobra_ will intercept them near the moon, driving them towards the open space beyond Salisbury’s orbit, herding them directly to Sihnon. The trip shouldn’t be longer than ten days. Mikey’s assembly is the day after tomorrow. Everything is going according to plan. 

All the same, he can’t shake this feeling. He tries to meditate, but no matter how he hard he concentrates, he can’t clear his mind, and gives up after an hour. He plays guitar until his fingertips begin to ache, and he realises dully that he’s being strumming with far too much force. It is late; Alex has been asleep for the past two hours, and the ship is silent. Restless, he paces the length of his quarters for an indeterminate period of time. 

A glance at his interface tells him the Captain’s lights are still on and that his entertainment screen is playing. It could be that Spencer fell asleep that way, or that he’s not sleeping in his own room, but Brendon decides to take the chance, refusing to think about it too much. 

He wraps himself in his shawl and goes up to the crew quarters, ignoring the way his heart sounds too loud in his own ears. Spencer’s hatch is cracked, pop music drifting softly from below. Brendon steels himself, drawing a deep breath, and raps his wrist against the rung of the ladder. 

It isn’t much of a surprise to see Ryan’s face peer up at him. He smiles when he spots Brendon and beckons him. “ _Qǐngjìn_.”

Ryan’s stretched out on Spencer’s bed and Spencer’s at his desk, legs kicked up on the end of the bed. Ryan moves aside to make room for Brendon, patting the spot in invitation. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Brendon says, by way of explanation. He glances at Spencer. “I remembered you had the same trouble.” 

Spencer’s screen is paused on some news feed and Brendon isn’t surprised to catch his father’s name in the scrolling bar along the bottom. It still makes his chest ache a little, all the same. He has never been close to his father, but he doesn’t relish what he has to do. 

Ryan catches him looking. “Yeah, some big scandal with Blue Sun,” he says. “Apparently Urie’s scientists were working with the government to create the Paxilon Hydroclorate that was used on Miranda.” 

“Some people will do anything for the right price,” Brendon says, startled at the coldness in his own voice. 

The loss of life on Miranda was senseless, and Brendon can’t stand to think of it for any extended period of time, or else he’ll be consumed with useless fury, wondering how things might have been different if he’d been the first son, or the second, or any but the last. The expendable one. 

Spencer gives him a pensive, unreadable look, but Ryan rolls onto his stomach and pins him with a glare. “How can you be so dismissive about what happened there? You say, _oh, that thing with the Tams_ , like it’s so distasteful to you. You talk about prices, as though it’s all _business_.”

Brendon doesn’t generally allow others to get a rise from him; it goes against everything he’s been taught as a Urie and as a Companion. He blames it on this odd unrest he’s feeling when he snaps. 

“I am sorry that I don’t wear my feelings on my sleeve, Ryan. I wasn’t brought up to talk about my uglier emotions. Do you want to know that what happened on Miranda makes me ill? Because it does. Since the broadcast I have dreamt about the people on that planet, and what their last days must have been like, and I imagine that what River Tam sees in her dreams is a million times worse. Don’t presume to know what I’m feeling, just because I don’t show it to you.” 

He lets out a shuddering breath and risks a look at them. Ryan’s eyes are wide, his mouth parted in surprise. Spencer’s expression hasn’t changed at all, except to become more closed off. Brendon’s stomach twists in regret and fear, wishing he could take all the words back, swallow them down and keep them safely guarded within. It is what he’s been taught. 

“ _Duìbuqǐ_.” Ryan says, voice soft. He reaches out, laying a hand over Brendon’s. Brendon has to struggle to keep from jerking away from the touch. “You’re right. I didn’t—”

“No.” Brendon shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ll. I shouldn’t have come here, interrupting.” 

“Brendon,” Spencer calls, stopping Brendon as he rises from the bed. “We want you to stay.” Brendon isn’t sure how that’s possible, but he wants it to be true. “Most of the time, we wouldn’t care if people thought different than us about politics. We’d just ignore them, or if they were being really offensive _hùndàn_ , maybe throw a punch.” 

“Oh,” Brendon says, sitting back down. He can’t help his pleased smile, ducking his chin to hide it. When he lifts his eyes, Spencer is still watching him with that same look on his face. It makes Brendon uneasy and hot all over, as if Spencer is seeing something more than Brendon is comfortable showing. “I am…unused to anyone expressing honest interest in my opinion about such things.” 

Ryan looks as though he’s burning with curiosity but he manages to control himself. He gives Brendon a strange smile. “At least now we know we don’t need to shove you out an airlock.” 

“That’s a relief,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes. He wouldn’t normally, but around these two he feels more at ease, more himself. He relaxes back against the wall behind the bunk, and jerks his head to the screen. “You can turn the feed back on.” 

“Actually,” Spencer says, opening one of the drawers of his desk, “it’s a bit too depressing for me, this late at night.” He pulls out a data cards. “How about something a little more mindless.” 

Brendon is all right with mindless. Maybe it will help him to fall asleep. He almost laughs out loud when Spencer inserts the card and the show begins to play. It’s one of the medical comedies currently popular, about a doctor from the Border worlds coming to Ariel and clashing magnificently with the staff at the hospital there. 

Ryan scoots closer to make room for Spencer on the bunk. Brendon watches them, fairly certain they aren’t even aware of the way they instantly curve into each other, filling up all the empty space between their bodies. The relationship between the two of them is intriguing to him—Brendon isn’t used to seeing people denying themselves what they want. 

He’s never seen two people so perfect for each other so completely oblivious to their own desires. For a moment, he considers doing something about it, but it really isn’t his place. Besides in another two weeks he’ll never see them again. It will hardly matter to him, then. 

*

Aberdeen is on the view screen, all soft blues and greens. It was one of the more successful instances of terraforming on the Rim planets, and has thrived because of it. Even two hours out the traffic is fairly heavy, ships taking off, or coming in at varying speeds to land. 

Most of the settlements on Aberdeen are charming places, drawing on the culture of the United Kingdom and Northern Europe of Earth-That-Was. The capital, Granite City, sits in the northeast hemisphere, full of recreations of Scottish architecture in the form of homes, cathedrals, bridges and monuments. 

Years ago, Ryan was rather fond of Aberdeen; he and Spencer lived there for almost a year following the war, while Unification was still in the works. Then the Alliance had come to the Rim, replacing all the local leaders with Magistrate Beckett. Beckett was only a few years older than them, and certainly didn’t possess the experience necessary to run an entire planet. 

Since leaving, Spencer has heard the rumours of extortion and a protection racket. As long as passing ships dock at Aberdeen and hire an escort to open space beyond the Kalidasa system, no misfortune will befall them. Otherwise, there are pirates based out of one of the moons, sweeping in to relieve ships of their cargo. 

It isn’t as bad as some Magistrates, who keep indentured servants or trade slaves, or let their people starve. The pirates have never killed anyone or destroyed any ships, but Spencer doesn’t hold with people taking what isn’t theirs. It’s been difficult, since having his citizenship stripped, to make an honest living, but he refuses to resort to thieving. 

He orders Patrick to avoid the area altogether. This whole trip feels like it’s spun entirely out of his control. The course they’ve ended up on doesn’t even remotely resemble Mikey’s original plan, or even Ryan’s. He feels as though they’re flying blind, but at least he can avoid this. 

By mid-afternoon, traffic has died down to a slow trickle, and when they reach Salisbury’s orbit, there aren’t any other ships in sight, which puts Spencer more at ease. Pete challenges him to a game of _Lazarus’ Triumph_ , putting it up on the main screen. It’s cathartic, blowing fake shit up. 

A proximity alarm goes off around six in the evening, the screen automatically switching to a view of the ship. It’s surprisingly close, given that the alarm only just sounded. “Patrick,” Spencer says, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. 

“I’m picking up a lot of noise,” Pete says, “I think it’s a pleasure ship.” He sounds dismissive and unconcerned. 

“They’re travelling at speed four,” Patrick says. “Their nav-sat shows them coming from Ghost, heading to Djinn’s Bane. No big deal.” He switches back to the game, unpausing just in time to KO Pete’s character. 

Spencer can’t shake the feeling of unease about the ship, but forces himself to focus on the game. Fifteen minutes later, there’s another alarm. This time, the screen shows the ship much closer up. It’s a _hornet_ class courier, sleek in shape, painted white with black stripes resembling a zebra’s print. It’s sort of hideous. 

“Patrick,” Spencer says again. “What’s their distance?” 

Patrick frowns when he checks his screen, tapping on his keyboard. “They’ve increased to speed five,” he mutters. “They should overtake us in seven minutes.” 

Spencer gets to his feet and leans over Pete’s shoulder to see his screen. Nothing about the ship looks out of the ordinary, and yet. “Hail them.” 

Pete sits up straight in his chair, fingers dancing over the keys. They wait in silence, after the hail has been sent. On the screen, the ship grows larger as it comes closer, revealing lurid neon green, purple, and pink details. Pete shakes his head. “No response.” 

“Send it again,” Spencer says, though he doesn’t honestly expect any change. “It’s probably nothing to worry about,” Patrick says, but he doesn’t sound so sure anymore. “The pilots on these pleasure ships spend half the day drinking and partying, themselves. There might not be anyone on the bridge to answer the hail.” 

“Patrick, they’re on a gorramn intercept course with my ship.” Spencer struggles to keep the creeping sense of panic out of his voice. 

On screen, the ship slows and Spencer waits, hoping against hope they’ve just noticed they’re about to plough into the side of the _Nevada_ and are going to change course. The cannons on the top of the ship shift and that hope goes right out the window. 

Spencer jabs his finger into the comm. button. “Ryan, I need you on the cannon. Zack, I’m gonna need speed six, fast. Everyone else, brace for impact.” 

The first volley grazes the port bow, tossing Spencer across the bridge. Patrick grabs him by the arm, keeping him from crashing into the wall. His shoulder screams in protest and he bites down hard against crying out in pain. The alarms are blaring, the unnervingly polite pre-recorded voice telling him first in Mandarin and then in English that containment is at eighty-eight percent. 

“Okay?” Patrick asks, eyes wide in concern. With his help, Spencer gets back on his feet. There’s a dull ringing in his ear and the distant smell of smoke. 

“Zack!” Spencer shouts. “Any minute!” 

Zack’s voice comes back, more annoyed than anything else, which Spencer finds reassuring, given the situation. “Well, you see, there were these _invisible mines_.”

“Zack!” Spencer snaps. 

“Two minutes,” Zack grunts. 

“Two minutes. Patrick, any brilliant ideas on how we outrun these guys?” 

“Sheer luck?” Patrick says. 

Spencer rubs his head. “Okay, someone shut that gorram message _off_.” Pete types a command into his keyboard and the ship is suddenly, blissfully silent. “Ryan, you have a shot of their gravitational drive?” 

“I can get it,” Ryan answers. “Patrick, take us to impulse.” 

“Their shields are pretty advanced,” Pete says. 

“Even a little damage would be enough,” Spencer says. He doesn’t like the desperation in his own voice, but this is crazy. He’s _never_ faced any sort of attack on his ship since the war ended. He can’t help but be suspicious that someone in the Kalidasa system knows that Ryan Ross is on his ship, and is trying to stop him. 

“They’re preparing to fire again,” Patrick says. 

“Well get out of the _way_ ,” Spencer says. He imagines he probably deserves the dark look Patrick spares him. 

“Locked on,” Ryan calls over the comm. “Firing.” 

Spencer watches on the screen as the pulse of light travels between their ships. There is no sign of impact. It just…dissipates. “We are so humped,” Pete says, with feeling. 

“You’ve got speed six,” Zack shouts and Spencer doesn’t even have to give the order before Patrick is taking his controls. On the screen, the _hornet_ class remains stationary and unresponsive. 

After a moment, it disappears from view altogether. It feels as though everyone on the bridge is holding their breath. “Are…are they pursuing?” Spencer asks. 

“At speed five,” Patrick says. 

“They’ve opened a channel with Aberdeen, Granite City.” A frown wrinkles Pete’s brow. “They’re…it looks like they’re communicating with Magistrate Beckett.” 

“ _Tā mā de_ ,” Spencer breathes. “These are the gorram pirates?” 

“Oh, it gets better,” Pete says. “That Alliance cruiser, _Regan_ , is en route to Aberdeen, too.” 

“ _Cào_ ,” Spencer says again, with conviction. 

“We’ll be clearing the Kalidasa system in ten minutes,” Patrick says. 

“They’re powering up their missiles,” Pete says. “Impact in twenty seconds.” 

Patrick’s the best pilot Spencer’s ever seen, including all those he knew in the war. If anyone can get them out of this, it’s him. The missile grazes along the belly of the ship, barely causing a shudder. 

“I can’t make this boat go any faster,” Zack tells him, somewhat testily. It sounds as though something’s sparking in the background, and Vicky’s cursing up a storm, which really does nothing to reassure Spencer.

Spencer lets out a long breath. “Give me something to get through their shields, then!” 

“If Pete locks onto their shield frequency, I can maybe synchronise and make them null, but that’s a big if and an even bigger maybe. And if they have an automated randomiser, we’re fucked.” 

It’s a tense few seconds while Pete messes with his controls before letting out a sound of triumph. “Got it,” Zack says. “Cross your fingers and send a prayer to whatever deity is listening.” 

There’s a sound of metal on metal as Ryan swings the cannon around. “Hit to their port shields,” Pete mutters. “Shields are holding at ninety-seven percent. They’re—they’re heading back the way they came,” Pete says, wonder in his voice. 

“What in the— _wǒ de mā hé tā de fēng kuáng de wài shēng_!” Spencer glares at Pete’s screen like it’s going to tell him any differently. “What is _going on_?” Pete shakes his head, an expression of profound confusion and disbelief on his face. “Keep us at speed six until we’re sure they’re not just coming back with reinforcements,” Spencer orders. 

His hands feel numb and shaky where they’re clinging to the back of Pete’s chair. He isn’t _unused_ to action. He saw more than his fair share in the war. He just thought that was _behind_ him. 

“I’ll be in the engine room,” he says, and turns away from the bridge. 

Ryan catches up with him in the hall, face ashen. They sort of collide, stumbling against the wall, Ryan’s arms coming around Spencer’s waist and clinging tightly. Spencer hides his face in Ryan’s neck, breathing in the scent of his sweat, and just lets himself stand still, for a minute. 

*

The damage from the mysterious zebra ship is surprisingly minimal, but everyone is still keyed up from it. Marshall’s been on the bridge, sitting at Patrick’s side, since Spencer said he and Brendon could leave their quarters. Ryan doesn’t exactly get that particular friendship, but it’s cute to watch.

Ryan himself has curled up in his favourite spot inside the workings of the ship, just outside the bridge. From up here he can hear the reassuring murmur of the voices from below while still being alone. He’s off-centre, the adrenaline hasn’t entirely gone, and he can’t stop thinking about the last time he was in a space battle, before today.

A couple hours after Pete assures them the ship isn’t following, Victoria decides it’s time for a dance party. She has these crazy ideas about some Earth-That-Was reptile and seriously ridiculous fashion choices. She’s explained it all to him before, but they’ve always been drunk at the time. It isn’t like Ryan minds. Vicky’s style has grown on him, and she looks hot in her shiny platform shoes and tiny, sleeveless dresses. Also, the music is pretty gorram awesome for dancing.

Shortly after joining the crew, with Zack’s help, Vicky set up the comm. system to play the music in every area of the ship, save the guest quarters. At the beginning Spencer and Patrick hadn’t been too thrilled about it, but now it’s become a happy, if unpredictable, part of their routine.

Ryan’s lying on his back when the thrum of bass starts. He hears Patrick and Pete laughing on their way down to the cargo hold, Patrick reassuring Marshall that everything’s alright. Spencer’s voice calls out from the far end of the hall, “Seriously, Jon, we don’t need that much tequila,” and Pete calls back, “Speak for yourself.”

Jon jumps up to smack his hand against the underside of the hull where Ryan’s lying. They all know him too well. Ryan rolls onto his side to peek between the cracks. Jon gives him a smile, shaking a bottle of liquor at him. “Coming?”

Ryan bites down on his tongue, like he’s even considering not going. He can’t fight the eager smile that curls his lips. He scrambles onto his hands and knees, crawling down towards the dining hall. Jon meets him there, helping him down.

Brendon comes in cautiously from the lounge quarters. “Is there a…problem?” he asks. “Is there another attack?” 

Ryan laughs, an edge of hysteria in it. “Come on.” He reaches out, catching Brendon around the wrist and dragging him along. Brendon goes along willingly, though he looks bewildered. He’s dressed perfectly for the occasion, his black thobe nashal embroidered in gold thread, swirling around him gracefully as he moves.

“You all really are like no other crew I’ve ever met,” Brendon tells him. He sounds a bit shell-shocked, and Ryan can’t really blame him, after the past couple of days they’ve had.

The lights in the cargo bay are set low, throbbing in time with the music. Everyone’s already dancing, except Zack and Marshall, who are apparently engaging in a drinking contest that Ryan imagines Marshall will be losing very soon.

Brendon watches them, mouth slightly ajar. “I’ve never…people don’t dance like this, on the Rim.”

“People don’t dance like this anywhere,” Ryan says. “Come on.” He tugs on Brendon’s wrist again, hand slipping to lace fingers with Brendon’s.

There aren’t many of them, but Ryan prefers it that way. He trusts everyone on the crew, doesn’t mind the press of their bodies to his. It’s much easier to let loose here than at any fancy Core party or backwater club. 

After the Alliance and the invisible mines and mysterious ships, it’s nice to let go, and there’s no better way than losing themselves in the music, dancing until their muscles won’t work anymore, and their throats ache.

Vicky is at their side immediately, insinuating herself close to Ryan, breath hot on his neck. Ryan lets go of Brendon, moving to put his hands on Vicky’s waist. She wraps her arms around his neck, drawing him in, moving slinkily against him.

Brendon watches them for a moment, like he’s studying them, and Ryan feels the weight of his gaze. “I don’t—how do I do it?” Brendon calls to them.

Vicky laughs and shakes her head; her hair tickles against Ryan’s neck in a pleasant sort of way. She leans back in Ryan’s arms to shout at Brendon over the music. “Just _move_.”

“Come here,” Pete urges, and grabs Brendon by the arm. Ryan watches over Vicky’s shoulder as Pete shows Brendon some ridiculous move he picked up in an ancient film.

Brendon laughs outright, and Ryan’s never seen him like that, practically shining with joy. He lets Pete and Jon pin him between them, going with it as they roll their hips against his. After a moment, Brendon seems to catch up. He matches their rhythm, counters their movements. When he leans into Jon, reaching back to wind his arms around his neck, Pete’s hands catch on the flimsy fabric of his thobe, pulling it tight over Brendon’s hips, hinting at the form of the body beneath. 

Ryan glances away, already out of breath and chest tight from the heat. Spencer and Patrick are more swaying to the music than dancing and he nods his head in their direction. Vicky makes a noise of disapproval and as one they separate, going to rectify the situation. 

Vicky sidles up to a surprised looking Patrick, tugging him close, and Ryan rings his arms around Spencer’s shoulders. “He’s a fast learner,” Spencer says, gaze fixed on Brendon, who Pete trades for Patrick. Brendon goes easily, pulling Victoria near with his arm around her waist. She says something that makes him laugh again. He dips her low, hips moving in an almost obscene grind.

Ryan slips his thigh between Spencer’s, and rocks up, making Spencer’s eyes go wide, snapping to Ryan’s face. That’s where Ryan likes his attention. He licks his lips, face close to Spencer’s, doesn’t fight his grin when Spencer’s arms go around him. Spencer’s hands are damp on the small of Ryan’s back when they slip beneath his shirt. It’s a possessive touch that sometimes makes Ryan’s hackles rise. Right now it makes heat spread through his chest. He presses his face into Spencer’s neck breathing deep the scent of all their sweat and the metallic tang that always comes from dancing in the cargo bay. His limbs are rubbery with unspent energy and he holds on, lets Spencer move them.

One song bleeds into another, and Ryan is passed from Spencer to Jon and then to Pete. Vicky presses glass after glass of tequila into his hand, until his head feels cloudy and his body loose and heavy. Marshall, who has been passed to Ryan by Zack, is in a similar state. He rubs against Ryan, arms flailing wildly in the air in a rough approximation of the way Pete likes to dance. Ryan can’t help but laugh at the attempt and clings around Marshall’s waist to keep them both from falling over.

“On Regina,” Marshall pants, fingers curling into Ryan’s biceps, “this sort of dancing would have been considered the work of the devil.”

Ryan finds that inexplicably hilarious. He lays his face on Marshall’s shoulder and laughs until his stomach aches and his eyes water. Marshall smells strangely of syrup. “What sort of dancing do you _have_ on Regina?”

“Shitty dances,” Marshall says blearily. He pulls away from Ryan suddenly, making a face. “Don’t tell Brendon I said that.”

“Let’s get you some water,” Ryan proposes, and drags Marshall off to the bench on the wall.

When he looks back, Spencer is dancing with Brendon, hands low on the curve of Brendon’s back, just above his ass. Brendon’s thobe is damp with sweat. It clings against his back and legs, almost translucent in places, showing a hint of skin. Ryan can’t help but watch the way they move together, fluid and sensual. Brendon bends back easily when Spencer guides him, spine curving in a perfect c-shape, throat bared.

Ryan isn’t really aware of his feet carrying him to them until he’s pressed against Brendon’s back. Spencer meets his eye over Brendon’s shoulder and he shifts his hands to rest them on Ryan’s hips instead. They all dance like this all the time; it doesn’t usually make Ryan’s stomach feel heavy with anticipation.

Spencer works his leg between Brendon until his knee bumps against Ryan’s. It hikes Brendon’s dress up around his thighs. Brendon laughs, resting his head on Ryan’s chest. “It’s so hot,” he shouts. Sweat beads on his hair, dropping to trace his cheekbone.

Ryan gathers up the hem of the thobe and gives a tug. Brendon eyes widen, startled, and he breaks out of their hold. “Just take it off,” Ryan shouts. “No one cares.” Pete’s already lost his shirt and looks halfway to losing his jeans.

Brendon bites his lip, darting a quick glance at Spencer, who nods encouragingly. His shirt is already unbuttoned half down his chest, baring lots of smooth, pale skin. It should probably be hilarious, a whore being worried about modesty, but Ryan finds it endearing. Nothing about Brendon seems to be as it should.

“Okay,” Brendon says, with a sharp, sudden smile. He lifts his arms, letting Ryan help to draw the dress off, leaving him in black tights and tank top. As nice as all his fancy clothes are, none of them have given much of a hint of the body underneath. 

Brendon is slender and shapely, with narrow, almost delicate-looking shoulders. Ryan can’t help staring at the compact muscles of his arms, and the way the muscles of his back shift as he lifts his arms around Spencer’s neck again. 

Ryan can only watch them for a moment: the way Brendon’s thighs flex under the thin material of his pants, the way his shirt catches against Spencer’s as they move, rising to show a glimpse of his stomach. 

Spencer’s eyes are heavy-lidded when his gaze meets Ryan. There is an invitation in the tilt of his head. Ryan steps close, hands hesitant on Brendon’s hips this time. He’s suddenly very aware of the curve of Brendon’s ass, and the way Ryan fits against it. Brendon’s a _really_ fast learner. He sinks his hips into the touch, moving just right to make Ryan’s breath catch, make his head drop. He rests his forehead against the heated skin at the top of Brendon’s spine. The tank top gaps at the top, offering a view of all the slick, tan skin of Brendon’s back. Ryan swallows hard. He’s usually good at controlling himself, but right now he just wants to dig his fingers into Brendon’s skin and rut against him. 

He tilts his chin back, catches Spencer watching him. There’s a familiar, territorial look in his eyes, but he’s not pulling away from the liquid slide of Brendon’s body against theirs. Ryan squeezes his eyes shut and there’s a sudden flash of an image against the inside of his lids, of Brendon’s mouth opening over the skin of Spencer’s throat, Spencer’s teeth pressed against the fullness of his bottom lip.

Ryan’s eyes snap open again, and Spencer’s still staring at him, like he knows exactly what Ryan just saw. It wouldn’t surprise him if it were true. “I need water,” Ryan says, throat dry and raw.

Brendon breaks away from them, laughing cheerfully, oblivious. “Me, too.” He dances on his way to the table with a shimmy of his hips that is entrancing to watch.

“I think I had too much tequila,” Ryan murmurs, and he doesn’t think Spencer can hear him over the music, except Spencer says, voice shaky, “I think I did, too.” 

*

Brendon wakes feeling deliciously sore like he hasn’t in a long time. There’s something about the twinges in the muscles of his legs that reminds him of what it was like, after a particularly fun night in bed. He grins at the ceiling as he moves his hips in a slow circle and stretches his arms out over his head.

Alex is still dead to the world when Brendon looks into his room. Under normal circumstances, Brendon probably wouldn’t show any mercy. But there was a lot of tequila last night, and they are vesselside, so he takes pity and closes the door silently.

Breakfast is a somewhat subdued affair. Vicky is asleep at the table when Brendon comes out, and Jon’s still passed out on the dining lounge’s couch, so Brendon takes it upon himself to throw something together.

When the others arrive, they look at him in awe, as though they’ve never seen or even heard of crepes before. He isn’t even offended by the way no one really talks, mostly too busy stuffing their faces with his meal. 

It is somewhat unnerving when the silence lasts throughout the day. Pete and Patrick are, as usual, engaged in conversation on the bridge, but their voices are subdued, barely whispers. Jon stays on the sofa, occasionally groaning for someone to bring him water or a trashcan. Vicky and Zack are cuddled together on the hammock in the engine, dozing throughout the day.

Spencer and Ryan, though, are being weird. Neither of them meets his gaze over breakfast, and though he bumps into them throughout the day, they don’t speak more than a murmured _hey_ or _excuse me_ in passing.

Brendon is not unused to people snubbing him, for whatever reason. There are those who know of his profession and look down upon it, and there are those who are merely jealous. Though he had initially thought that the crew might react similarly, they have been quite friendly. This new attitude doesn’t make any sense, especially considering how much fun they had last night.

Shortly after lunch, Pete calls the crew to the bridge, and curious, Brendon comes as well. It’s a news feed from the Core, a Londinium woman standing before the Hall of Parliament.

“Following a private assembly today, the members of Parliament have decided to move forward with impeachment proceedings. On Monday, members of the Privy Judicial Committee will begin the preliminary hearings to decide what members of the government will be charged in the investigation, other than Minister Ross.”

A view of George Ross speaking at a press conference comes on the screen as the newscaster’s voice continues. “The Prime Minister spoke yesterday against the accusations of his involvement in the Miranda disaster and denied knowledge of the Operative assigned to assassinate seventeen-year-old River Tam.”

“Recent rumours have surfaced regarding George Ross the Third, including his involvement in the Unification war. Though missing and presumed dead, the younger Mister Ross would be a boon to those in the government looking to replace the current Prime Minister. The likelihood is slim of someone out of the Ross line being appointed to office.”

The feed switches to a political pundit, an elegant looking woman with greying hair and a smart suit. “We are talking about the Rosses here,” she said, stressing the name. “This is a family known for its numerous scandals, and more importantly, for rising above them. Where the Ross family is concerned, public opinion can, quite frankly, _qù sǐ_. Parliament can put on their game face, but the fact is that the Ross family has been previously charged with numerous sex scandals, embezzlement scandals, _murder_ —and every time we just get another Ross in office.”

“Given the ages of Penelope and Marcus Ross,” the news anchor says, coming back on screen, “the only viable option for replacing Minister Ross is his eldest son, whose continued existence is a point of much contention.”

As she fades from screen, replaced with a story about some starlet announcing her pregnancy, Pete clears off the screen. Brendon has to fight to keep his face expressionless, though inside his stomach is turning with excitement. He wishes there was a way to contact Mikey, to ask if they have the younger Ross yet. Londinium feels months away, at the moment.

Pete opens his mouth to speak, but when he catches sight of Brendon, he closes it with a snap again. He darts a look at Spencer, and then says, “Exciting stuff.”

Ryan is being too quiet, arms crossed protectively around his middle and Spencer subtly moves in front of him. Spencer looks at Brendon consideringly. “What are your thoughts?”

“Cautiously…hopeful,” Brendon says. He sincerely hopes they are all better at lying around others, because he isn’t convinced by whatever this act is. They’re up to something, and he feels a little foolish for not having recognised it sooner. 

He goes back to his room to share the news with Alex. Brendon is restless, ready for action. He should be there now, meeting with clients, securing votes, working his magic. Alex tries to distract him, but it’s no use.

After dinner, and more of the awkward silence from the Captain and his first mate, Brendon decides upon a course of action. He is curious not only about the silent treatment, but also about their reaction to the news feed. Yet even as he considers it, he knows it isn’t the best idea.

He ignores the little voice in his head, telling him he’s too invested. There is no excuse for the way he goes, out of makeup, in his favourite pyjamas—loose fitting pants and a matching mandarin collar shirt in cream linen. The lines are flattering, but casual, and he would not usually allow anyone other than Alex to see him this way. He feels more naked without his makeup than he does without clothing.

Spencer and Ryan are in the Captain’s quarters again, so Brendon takes his finest bottle of liquor—a gift of absinthe from a client on Persephone—and goes to them. “I can't drink this on my own, and I'm afraid the others would just drink it all in one swallow,” he says, by way of explanation, “So...would you two care to help me with it?”

Spencer eyes the bottle warily, but they welcome him in. Ryan gets down three glasses and Brendon pours for them. He has no intention of drinking, but he has been taught how to appear as if he is, to put others at ease. He sits back against Spencer’s pillows and takes a tiny sip, observing over the rim of his glass as Ryan and Spencer draw from their own.

“ _Shèngzǐ_ ,” Spencer sputters, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “It’s still as hideous as the first time I had it.”

Ryan makes an amused face. “You’ll have to excuse Spencer, his tastes aren’t as refined as our own.”

“Oh, _qù nǐde_ ,” Spencer says, flicking him on the arm. “There was nothing refined about Jedediah’s absinthe.” He rolls his eyes at Brendon. “This guy in our unit, came from Moab. He brought all these herbs with him and brewed the absinthe out of the back of his tent.”

“Sounds…like an interesting experience,” Brendon says, smiling into his cup. Even the scent of the liquor has an intoxicating effect.

“We were sort of desperate.” Spencer laughs.

“Is that how the two of you met?” Brendon asks. “In the war?”

Ryan glances over his shoulder at Spencer, as if waiting for him to put an end to the conversation. When he says nothing, Ryan turns back to Brendon. “Our fathers worked together, when we were children. We’ve known each other forever.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, “Ryan’s been getting me into trouble forever.”

That explains the closeness, but not why they resist the inevitable evolution of their relationship with one another. It only makes Brendon more curious.

“You’ve really got to let that time with the flooding go,” Ryan tells Spencer, grinning.

“It wasn’t you that got in trouble for it,” Spencer protests. “And let’s not even talk about the time you talked Carson into helping you herd all the farm animals into the manor.”

Brendon shakes his head, and takes another sip from his glass. “Sounds as though you had a very interesting childhood.”

“Average, at best,” Ryan says dismissively. “Like you never raised any hell back on Hera.”

“My parents wouldn’t have stood for it,” Brendon says. “I spent most of my time in lessons.”

Ryan and Spencer exchange a look that Brendon cannot read. He’s observed them conversing silently before, and refuses to be envious of the bond they have. “Yeah, but you said you had a lot of brothers and sisters, right?” Ryan asks. “Didn’t you all pull pranks on each other?”

Brendon shrugs. “The age difference was disproportionate. They were all close together, but I’m eight years younger than my sister before me. By the time I was old enough to be getting into any sort of trouble, they were off to school, learning their trades. I don’t regret it; I learned much from them.”

“Weren’t there other kids around?” Spencer asks. He and Ryan look honestly baffled. Brendon knows that his childhood on Sihnon was not normal; even the other children at the training house were often confused by his upbringing, devoid of play.

“There were children of the servants, but I didn’t really interact with them.”

“How did you end up becoming a—” Ryan stops, shooting Brendon an uncomfortable look. “Doing what you do?”

“Please, Ryan, I’m not ashamed of my profession,” Brendon says. He pauses, refilling their glasses before speaking. Spencer scoots closer to Ryan unconsciously and Ryan leans back against him. 

“My parents hadn’t exactly planned on having me,” he begins. “They had planned on a certain number of children to fill a certain number of roles. There was no place for me, in the family business. As a child, it was observed that I had pleasing features, and my parents saw the benefit in using me for political leverage.”

“Your parents traded you?” Spencer asks, voice high in disbelief.

“Nothing as crude as that,” Brendon says. Spencer and Ryan don’t look sure of that. “But that is enough about me. I was enjoying hearing about your childhood. Tell me more.”

They are hesitant at first, clearly still fixated on Brendon’s story. He has no idea why he told them what he did, but is determined to move past it. After another glass of absinthe each, they are speaking freely, telling him about the time they made fireworks out of Spencer’s sisters’ hair dye and ended up burning off their eyebrows, and the time they tried to make a pie out of berries they’d picked in the forest behind Ryan’s house, only to find out they were poisonous after eating them. Spencer’s mother had made them drink ipecac and hadn’t let them out of her sight for weeks afterwards.

Brendon has heard many former Independents speak of why they joined the Browncoats. Nothing about what Ryan and Spencer are saying sounds anything like the childhoods of other Independents Brendon has known.

“How did you end up in the war?” he asks, as he refills their glasses a fourth time. His own is surprisingly low, and Ryan pours more for him, too.

“We grew up in the Core,” Spencer says, which isn’t a big surprise. “We always knew Alliance rule, and that was fine. I grew up thinking I was lucky to have the freedom and luxury the Alliance provided us with. Me and Ryan, we’d play like we were settlers on the Rim, having to rough it, and I felt _sorry_ for those people.

“Then the war started when I was twelve and our teachers were saying all these awful things about the Independents—these atrocities they were committing, and how people on the Rim were uncivilised heathens and they needed our help to attain enlightenment, except what they were doing didn’t seem _wrong_ to me. I mean, _I_ wanted the Alliance, I wanted that sort of life, but I guess I didn’t see how it was any of our business what the people on the Rim did. If they wanted to live their lives differently.”

“I found this book,” Ryan says, picking up the narrative. “This old history book in the school library, they probably didn’t even know it was there. It was about the birth of the Anglo-Sino Alliance back on Earth-That-Was, and how the Europeans had just come into America and decimated the people there because they thought they had some claim to that land.”

“It wasn’t right,” Spencer says, like anything is that simple, like two rich boys from the Core could just up and _join the Independents_ because it was the right thing to do. “No one would listen. My parents just shook their heads at me, like it was some phase I’d grow out of, I don’t know. But I was living in luxury and there were kids my age being killed on the Border and Rim just because they wanted to be free. So I decided I was going to join, as soon as I turned eighteen.

“Only then Ryan got into this big fight with his father and took off in the middle of the night, without _telling_ me—” 

“I didn’t want you going,” Ryan says. There’s something in his eyes that Brendon reads as regret, that he still would change things if he could, prevent Spencer from ever having joined.

“So I snuck on the next transport to Meadow,” Spencer says, as though it was a foregone conclusion. “It was the nearest recruitment camp. I was sure they were gonna take one look at my ident card and send me packing, but they were so desperate. They didn’t look at any of our ident cards. They didn’t care how old we were. That was back in ‘10, right before the Battle of Du-Khang, they just needed bodies. They shoved guns in our hands and sent us out to the field.”

Brendon remembers watching the news feeds from the safety of the Great House. It had seemed unreal to him, so distant that it might as well have been happening in another time altogether. His clients didn’t care to speak of it, messy, unseemly affair that it was. He couldn’t quite reconcile the reality of it even now, trying to imagine these two men fighting and bleeding on a battlefield while he seduced the noblewomen of the Core and took them to his bed.

“I cannot decide it you two are incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish,” he murmurs.

“Oh, a bit of both, I imagine,” Ryan tells him with a self-deprecating smile. “We had all these grand ideas about how we were going to change the world. Like our enlisting would somehow change the face of the war.”

“When in reality,” Spencer interrupts, “we were barely in over a year before the Battle of Serenity, and we were in the Quin Long system at the time, defending the base on Deadwood.”

“Regardless of the outcome, I think it is very noble, what you did,” Brendon says.

The two of them have become quite entangled with one another on the other end of the bed, Ryan’s legs laid over Spencer’s, Spencer’s head resting lightly on the crook of Ryan’s arm. Brendon bites the inside of his lip, wondering about the wisdom of what he intends to do. Then he does it anyway.

“Not many people would follow someone into battle like that,” he says, picking at the bedspread.

Spencer laughs, shaking his head. “He would have got himself killed. I couldn’t let him go off on his own.”

Ryan shoves at him, but Spencer just wraps his arms around his middle and holds on. It puts his hands very near to Brendon’s, and Brendon refuses to jump when Spencer draws a finger along the inside of his index finger, sweeping lightly down to the curve of his thumb.

“Yes,” Brendon agrees, inexplicably breathless. “And it’s really remarkable, the way the two of you have remained together since then, despite all the hardships you must have faced.”

Spencer gives him a blank, uncomprehending look and Ryan purses his lips. They say, at the same time, “He’s my best friend.”

It’s sort of infuriating, and Brendon’s having trouble thinking straight. His second glass is almost empty, and he doesn’t know precisely when that happened, and Spencer’s dull nail is tracing shapes on the inside of his wrist, making his pulse quicken.

“Yes.” He takes a quick swallow of the absinthe. “But haven’t you ever thought of settling down?” He almost jumps out of his skin when Ryan’s hand closes around his ankle, gently stroking up his calf.

“Your skin is so smooth. Do you shave?” Ryan asks, distracted, and Brendon curses himself for allowing them to drink quite so much.

“All the hair on my body save that on my head was removed when I turned sixteen. It was considered unsightly.” Brendon keeps his tone light, dismissive, tries to redirect the attention. “Don’t you wish to take wives? Or…or husbands?

Spencer nuzzles his face into Ryan’s ribs, his fingers never stopping on Brendon’s skin. “Other people don’t really get it,” he says, and it almost doesn’t make sense. He closes his hand around Brendon’s wrist, scrapes his nails along the inside of his palm.

Brendon shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt with his free hand. Ryan gives him an oddly pleased smirk and reaches over to pour him another glass. “This henna, do you do it yourself?” he asks, stroking his fingers down over the top of Brendon’s foot. Brendon has never considered himself ticklish, but the touch makes him squirm.

“Normally I would do it myself, but I have been teaching Alex the art of mehndi. So you don’t intend to marry?”

“Is that so odd to you?” Ryan asks, obviously amused. “Do _you_ ever intend to marry?”

“I—” Brendon blinks at him, confused. Ryan lifts a brow, rubbing a knuckle along the arch of Brendon’s foot. Brendon swallows an aborted moan. “It was my apparently too subtle way of asking why it is the two of you are not lovers.”

Spencer lifts his head from where it’s resting, higher and higher on Ryan’s chest. He tips his chin back and looks Ryan in the eye. “Why is that we’re not lovers?” he murmurs. Brendon is very aware of the fact that they’re both still touching him.

Ryan shakes his head mutely, swaying closer. “I don’t—” he falls silent when Spencer kisses him. His hand squeezes tightly around Brendon’s ankle, nails biting into skin.

Their lips part wetly, and Spencer deepens the kiss. They’re so close Brendon can see every swipe of tongue, hear every soft breath. His own arousal throbs low in his gut, startling and almost painful in its intensity. Ryan pulls back just enough to bite down on Spencer’s bottom lip and tug, earning a low groan. Spencer squeezes Brendon’s wrist, and Brendon feels like a conduit between them, and they’re channelling all his desire into him.

They draw back, breathing heavily, lips shining, staring as if they’ve only just seen each other for the first time. Then, as one, their gaze turns to Brendon, eyes dark. “ _Oh_ ,” Brendon moans, “oh, _rén cí de fó zǔ_ , I can’t be here.”

He pulls his wrist from Spencer’s grip, pushing back on his arms to slip away. He hadn’t even realised how tangled up with them he’d gotten until now, struggling to be free.

“Brendon,” Ryan says, barely more than a breath.

Brendon shakes his head, hands trembling as his grips the rung of the ladder. He can’t look back at them, has to close his eyes and draw a calming breath, forehead resting against steel. “I’m sorry, I just—” he shakes his head again, climbing quickly out of the room.

Beneath, he can hear them murmuring, and part of him wants to stay, to listen, but he’s too terrified that they might come after him. He can’t seem to draw enough air, even after he’s locked the door to his room, slumping against it. He’s painfully hard, and realises that they must have seen it.

He lets his head fall back with a dull thump against the door. His breath comes out in a shuddery sigh. “ _Tā mā de_.” His palms shake when he presses them to his stomach, imagining Spencer’s strong, warm hands, and Ryan’s slender, elegant fingers. 

The air around him is too warm and thick, making it difficult for him to think. He has never wanted a man like this. _Two_ men. It’s impossible and insane and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught, but he can’t help thinking about them as his hand slips beneath the waistband of his sleep pants. His fingers wrap tightly around his cock and he strokes down the length, biting his lip against a groan.

Behind his lids he can see them kissing, can still feel them touching him, and he can’t stop his hips thrusting up into his fist. One of the major lessons for the male Companion is the Tantric method of control. Brendon has been trained to pleasure his lovers for hours on end, if need be. His stamina has never failed him with a client. Yet now he comes within minutes, staining his pants like some teenaged virgin.

As he cleans up, he can feel his cheeks burning in shame. It is one thing to fantasise about the object of one’s desire; it is quite another to act upon that desire. And worse, to do so now, when there are so many other, larger concerns, and so much at stake. He cannot afford to allow his attention to be split in this manner.

Telling himself as much doesn’t actually help at all. He still lies in bed, mind racing, wondering if Ryan is still in Spencer’s room. Have they continued where he left them? It was his intention. All the same, he can’t help the way his heart plummets at the thought, stomach tying itself in knots.

Brendon is used to people coveting him; it is part of the appeal of being a Companion. He enjoys sex for the most part, and has often been attracted to his clients. But he’s never _wanted_ someone before. 

*

Ryan’s sleep is troubled, and he spends much of the night in a state of half-wakefulness. It’s too warm in his room with the sheets, but without them he’s too cold, and he keeps getting tangled up, a sensation that sneaks into his dreams, manifesting as hands holding him down.

He feels sick to his stomach, and he can’t really blame it on the liquor, though it isn’t helping. His mind keeps replaying the evening over and over, particularly the part where Spencer’s lips pressed to his.

Ryan has imagined that kiss a million times a million different ways over the years, and somehow none of his imaginings lived up to the reality of it. He’d always feared that if he acted on his impulses, if they ever tried to take things further, he would find that his feelings for Spencer were more familial than amorous. It isn’t a concern of his anymore.

He’d just never expected there to be a third party involved.

And now there are all new, even more complicated concerns, like how this is going to affect their friendship. The thing is, Ryan would rather go his entire life without another kiss from Spencer, if he knew that Spencer would always be beside him as his friend. If they were to become lovers and it ever ended—if it ended their friendship—

It doesn’t do any good to think of it now, when he should be sleeping. He knows he needs to wait until he’s sober to approach this problem, but he can’t stop fixating on it. Or on the way Spencer had closed down the minute Brendon had left. The way he’d pulled back from Ryan until they weren’t touching anywhere at all and if this makes things weird between them, he isn’t sure how he’s going to make it through the coming weeks.

He’s drifted off again, dreaming about being stuck on Deadwood in the middle of winter, except Brendon is there, selling mattresses, and doing a pretty good job of pretending like he doesn’t know Ryan at all.

An explosion rocks the base, blowing out the wall, covering Brendon in debris. Ryan tries to call out, but his voice won’t work, and there’s something sticky on his face, pouring from the stitches Brendon made. Pete’s voice is shouting something, but Ryan can’t understand, can’t think of anything beyond the pain blossoming in his head.

It takes him a second to realise he’s awake and on the floor of his bedroom. He pushes himself up on his wrists, shaking his head, disoriented, and he can’t tell if the room is actually rocking, or if it’s just because he’s dizzy. It’s pitch black, and there’s a klaxon going off. The computer is telling him something about containment, and Ryan can’t _think_.

He crawls on hands and knees until he finds the ladder, hauling himself to his feet. The whole room sways, and this time he’s sure it’s the ship, if only because of the noise that comes with it, like a can opener, but on a much larger scale.

It’s sheer force of will that gets him up the ladder and then Jon is at his hatch, helping him up and out. Ryan scrambles across the grated flooring of the hallway, hand catching the wall.

“Wha—” he starts, and Jon just says, “Reavers.”

Ryan saw his share of atrocities in the war, but none of them make his blood chill to remember like the mere mention of Reavers does.

Jon leaves him for the engine room and Ryan stumbles onto the bridge. It’s in chaos when he arrives. Sparks fly from Patrick’s station and he looks like he’s in worse shape that Ryan feels. He’s typing one handed, his other hand held to a seeping wound on his side. “—even then I won’t have control of navigation.”

“It won’t matter anyway,” Zack answers, “we’re dead in the water.”

“Where’s Spence?” Ryan asks.

Pete’s station is smoking but he’s still working. It’s obvious to anyone that knows him that it’s taking every ounce of his control not to stop what he’s doing and go to Patrick’s side. “At least they’re not going to be calling for reinforcement now,” he says, and what should sound triumphant sounds like defeat.

“Where’s Spencer?” Ryan demands, voice going sharp.

“He and Vicky are in the cannons,” Patrick snaps. “And if you aren’t going to be helpful, you can shut the hell up.”

Normally Ryan would snap back, but right now he can’t summon any emotion other than abject terror. He leaves the bridge for cannon access but Spencer and Vicky meet him on the way there. Spencer shakes his head, a grim look on his face. “They’ve knocked out both cannons.”

“But what—” _what else do we have_ , is what Ryan can’t ask, because he knows the answer is nothing. If Zack can’t get them moving and they can’t defend themselves…

There’s another impact, this one without an explosion. “They’ve harpooned us,” Patrick announces over the comm.

“No,” Ryan says, heart climbing into his chest. “We—what do we do?”

Spencer grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a firm shake. “We’re not dying like this.”

Ryan can’t say anything in response, because yes they _are_. He can’t help but think of the way Spencer’s mouth felt against his, and all the time they’ve wasted, and how he’ll never touch Spencer’s bare skin with his own. “Spencer—”

“Not letting you die,” Spencer says. “Vicky, engine room.” He drags Ryan with them as they go.

Ryan has to close his eyes when they step down the stairs. The engine is a mess of exposed and melted parts. He’s not an engineer, but he knows fucked when he sees it, and this is it. “What are our options?” Spencer asks, hands on his hips.

It’s a reassuring stance that almost makes Ryan laugh. He holds it back, knowing it will only turn hysterical if he lets it out. His head is _throbbing_ and he can’t open his left eye anymore, blood clotting thickly in his lashes.

“There _aren’t_ any options,” Zack says, utterly defeated.

“That is bullshit!” Spencer all but shouts.

“Spence,” Zack says, spreading his hands out to indicate the engine room. “We’re not going anywhere. They’re gonna reel us in and cut us open and board us, and then they’re gonna—”

“They’re _not_ ,” Spencer argues. “Zack, I need you to think. The engine isn’t coming back from this—”

“That’s kind of exactly my point,” Zack says.

“So how do we use her?” Spencer continues, like Zack never interrupted.

“They’re flying without containment,” Brendon says, striding down the stairs. Ryan wants to reach out and touch him, just to know he’s alright, but holds himself still at Spencer’s side.

“They’ve extended clamps to the rear airlock,” Patrick calls out, and he sounds so calm.

“If we disable the pressure gage on the reactor—” Zack says, running to his computer.

Brendon nods. “The meltdown could result in a chain reaction.”

“It would destroy the ship,” Zack says.

“The derelict where the Reaver ship was hiding might have the parts I’d need to send out a subspace message to the Core,” Pete calls.

“That’s a big maybe,” Vicky says.

“They’re cutting through the outer hull now,” Patrick says.

“I don’t really see what other choice we have,” Spencer says. “Zack, do what you have to do. Jon, get whatever supplies you can carry. Vicky, your weapons. Everyone else, get your asses on the shuttle.”

The way to the shuttle is a mess of twisted metal and acrid smoke that stings Ryan’s eyes and curls in the back of his throat, making him choke. They lose Brendon somewhere along the way, and Ryan is all set to start panicking all over again. But then he appears a moment later with a case of medical supplies over his shoulder. He doesn’t fight when Ryan reaches for him, lacing their hands together. His grip is tight around Ryan’s fingers, almost painful.

Pete and Patrick are already aboard the shuttle, and Ryan comes to an abrupt stop when he sees Patrick laid out on one of the medical cots, blood soaked through his shirt, dripping on the floor beneath. Brendon lets out a curse and drops to his side, peeling back his shirt. It’s so much worse beneath, all pulsing, liquid red and Ryan’s seen enough dead bodies on the battlefield to know which parts should be kept on the inside.

Pete’s at his side, arm hung at an odd angle, but he’s squeezing Patrick’s hand, brushing the hair off his face. “It’s a scratch,” Brendon says, voice convincingly light. “I’ve seen worse after a playground fight.”

Patrick makes a huffing sound like laughter that ends on a wet cough. His eyes screw shut in pain when Brendon jabs a needle into his side. Brendon’s face is serious and intent as he holds the two parts of skin together and squeezes foam bandage along the seam. He grabs Ryan’s hand and jerks him down to his knees, pressing the heel of his palm against Patrick’s stomach. “Keep pressure on it, we need to stop the internal bleeding.”

Ryan nods, unable to take his eyes away from the blood staining Brendon’s hands and fancy pyjamas. From the hall he can hear the _Nevada_ ’s computer warning that the pressure is malfunctioning and meltdown is imminent.

“They’re working on the inner hull,” Spencer says from his seat at the con. “Everyone on the shuttle _now_.”

Jon and Marshall stumble in laden with bags from the kitchen, Vicky on their heels looking like some goddess of war, covered head to toe in weapons and ammunition. Brendon takes the pilot’s seat, reaching above him to switch on the engine.

“Let me guess, you had a brother who was a pilot,” Spencer remarks.

“A sister,” Brendon says, unaffected by Spencer’s tone. “This thing isn’t going to get us very far.”

“Far enough,” Spencer says. “They’re through.” Ryan isn’t sure whether it’s his imagination, but he can hear them, shrieking. “Zack! Where the fuck are you?”

“Here!” Zack pants, from behind them. “Had a little run in with one of our guests.” His leg looks practically shredded beneath his cargo shorts, a mess of torn flesh and exposed muscle, but despite that he’s still moving quickly, dodging the debris of the hall to make his way to the shuttle.

As soon as he’s inside, Brendon seals the door once and releases the docking clamps. “Meltdown in seventy seconds,” Spencer reports. “You need to get us away from here.”

“If I go now, they’re going to pursue, and we’re not going to have another chance at this,” Brendon grits out between his teeth.

Even through the sealed door, Ryan can hear them, tearing through the ship.

“Forty seconds,” Spencer says, more pointedly.

“Wait,” Brendon growls.

“They made them,” Pete hisses. Ryan looks up at him, barely able to see through the haze of blood, and Pete’s eyes are on him. “Boyd Urie. George Ross.”

“I know,” Ryan says helplessly. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Pete,” Patrick breathes. They all jump at the banging on the door of the shuttle. Something dints the hull in on the second strike.

The shuttle jerks to action, pulling away from the _Nevada_. Through the porthole on the door, Ryan can see the Reavers being sucked into space from the hole they’ve made in the shuttle airlock.

“Ten seconds.”

The explosion is blindingly white and utterly silent, and the shockwave hits them seconds later, sending them reeling into the empty black. Ryan picks himself up off the floor at once, putting his hand back where Brendon instructed.

At the helm, Brendon looks cool and collected, unshaken by the events altogether. He also looks nothing like the man Ryan thought he was coming to know and care for. “They’re not pursuing.”

“No shit,” Zack manages between deep, pained breaths. “No one’s going to be left after that.”

For some reason, the thought doesn’t seem to make Brendon feel any better about the whole situation. “Those are the ones who didn’t stop,” he murmurs, staring at the wreckage. 

*

“Secondary life support is at forty percent. We’ve got maybe two days on the station and another five hours on the shuttle. Long range sensors on the main deck are optional, but someone has completely gutted the communications system. Best we’ve got is the shuttle’s short range system.” Pete sighs. He looks like he wants nothing more than to lay his head down on the table in defeat. “The only way anyone’s going to pick up our message is if they pass within an hour of us.”

Spencer rubs his face, slumping back into his seat. “What about upgrading the shuttle? Is there anything around here we can salvage?”

“Even if there was, that shuttle was never made for long distance travel,” Zack says. “To sustain life support, navigation, and communication she’d need a complete overhaul. We’d be better off trying to build a new ship from the ground up, and before you ask, that isn’t happening.” He sucks in a breath of pain as Brendon tends to his leg, finishing the last of his bandaging.

“Our only option is a passing ship,” Brendon says, matter of fact. “We need to take shifts scanning for any traffic.”

Spencer is very carefully not thinking about Brendon’s newest talents at engineering and piloting, as well as medical skill that extends beyond superficial stitching—he’s set Pete’s broken arm, stopped Patrick’s haemorrhaging and stitched up Jon’s and Ryan’s wounds. There are more important concerns right now than the great mystery that is Brendon.

“There isn’t a whole lot of traffic through here anyway, and with recent events, even less,” Spencer says. “You expect someone’s going to stroll by in the next two days and five hours.”

Brendon gives him a cool look. “There will be ambassadors and magistrates travelling to Londinium for the Parliamentary hearings. Also—” He reaches into the medical bag and produces a two vials of liquid. “I have created a sedative that will lower the heart rate and oxygen consumption. By taking turns observing the sensors, the rest of us in deep sedation, we can get a further four days.”

Spencer rises to his feet, using his height to his full advantage, towering over Brendon’s seat. “If you tell me you learned that from your brother, I swear to god—”

“What does it matter where I learned it, Spencer?” Brendon asks. “We don’t have a lot of choices out here, and you’re wasting precious oxygen getting worked up about it.”

“Spence,” Ryan says, reaching out to brush a hand down his arm. He’s watching Brendon like he sees something familiar.

“It isn’t a bad idea,” Pete says wearily.

Spencer lets out a long breath through his nose, hands on his hips. “Okay. Look, we’re gonna have breakfast, we’re gonna take a nice close look around this place and see if there’s anything we can use, and then—then I’ll take first shift.”

They have Blue Sun emergency rations and bottled water for their meal. Ryan rests his head in Spencer’s lap while they eat. His wound is angry red and purple, and Spencer knows what exactly is hanging in the balance here, what it means to the Verse for Ryan to get to Londinium safe and sound, but more than anything he wishes he’d just taken Ryan somewhere far away from this all. 

Brendon doesn’t open his ration. He sits along the far wall, knees drawn up to his chest, stroking his hand in a calming gesture down Marshall’s spine. Spencer’s never really considered it, but Marshall looks so young now, barely out of his teens, and it reminds Spencer of the first time he went into battle, and how he and Ryan hadn’t spoken a word for almost a week after, just holding onto each other in the night.

Brendon watches them, face unreadable, but Spencer likes to think it’s regret in his eyes. It’s crazy, and the timing’s all wrong, but gorramed if Spencer doesn’t want Brendon with them in that faraway place.

After they eat, they split up, leaving Zack and Patrick with Marshall looking over them. Vicky heads for the engine room, Jon for the kitchen, and Pete for the main computer room. Brendon says he’s going to check the crew quarters. Ryan doesn’t let go of Spencer’s hand when he heads for the bridge, and Spencer doesn’t press the issue.

The station was built over ten years ago, as an Alliance checkpoint during the war. It’s been abandoned ever since Unification, and most of the equipment is outdated. Spencer already knows they’re not going to find anything of use on the bridge. Their best bet is Pete finding something to boost the range of their communications.

Ryan lets go of his hand to fall into the captain’s chair. He should be resting, but Spencer doesn’t want to let him out of his sight. He drops down to the floor by Ryan’s side, resting his forehead against Ryan’s knee. Ryan’s hand laces in his hair, tugging gently until Spencer looks at him.

“Hey,” Ryan murmurs.

Spencer presses his cheek against Ryan’s thigh. “Hey.”

Ryan tugs again, with purpose, and Spencer goes with it, letting Ryan lead him closer, until their foreheads are resting together and Ryan’s breath is coming fast against Spencer’s mouth. It’s so easy to close the distance, catching the little hitching sound Ryan makes when their mouths meet. Ryan’s fingers squeeze in Spencer’s hair and he deepens the kiss, tongue sweeping past Spencer’s lips.

It’s more hesitant than their first kiss, when everything seemed perfect. This feels more like an apology for everything that could have been, and Spencer isn’t ready to acknowledge this is the end.

“There,” Ryan says when they part.

“Hmm?” Spencer asks, laying his head on Ryan’s shoulder. It’s uncomfortable on his knees, but he doesn’t move.

“Just, you know, fewer regrets,” Ryan tells him. Without looking, Spencer can imagine his sad smile.

Spencer gets to his feet and turns away to start poking around. All the equipment is dark and silent. “Ryan, I really wish you wouldn’t say _fèi huà_ like that.”

“Like the truth?” Ryan laughs.

Spencer kicks around the cluster of wires that have been pulled from under the communications station. He knows he’s not going to find anything different from what Pete’s already found, but he can’t help looking.

“You heard what Brendon said, about all the Magistrates and everything.”

Ryan sounds amused when he says, “Space is a big place, Spence.”

“Maybe you should go back down and rest,” Spencer mutters. “You don’t want to push yourself, with that wound.” Ryan doesn’t fight when Spencer leads him away.

Back in the cargo hold, Brendon has returned with sleeping bags from the quarters and together with Jon is laying them out close together. It’s cold on the station; Zack’s set up the life support controls to give them as much oxygen as possible, but the environmental controls are shot to _guǐ_.

Pete curls up with Patrick on the medical stretcher and Brendon gives them extra blankets. He isn’t saying anything, but Spencer’s seen enough wounds to know when there’s a danger of someone going into shock.

The rest of them gather on the floor, Marshall pressed close between Zack and Brendon, with Jon and Vicky on either end. Jon’s left a space between himself and Brendon and Ryan climbs into the sleeping bag there.

Spencer still has a lot of questions for Brendon—would really like to pin him down and force the answers out of him in one way or another—but for now he can only feel something like relief when Brendon doesn’t struggle as Ryan presses close. Brendon wraps an arm around his shoulders, resting his chin against Ryan’s hair.

After the sedative has been administered, Spencer goes back to the bridge. They’ve decided on eight-hour shifts. Spencer had longer shifts in the war, and he’s more than ready to stay up longer now, but Brendon says the sedatives will wear off in that time, anyway.

He really doesn’t want to think about this as the end, but that doesn’t stop him from doing so. And if this is going to be it, his mind rebels against the idea of being asleep for the last few days of his life.

The space around them is still and empty, save for the wreckage of the _Nevada_ and the Reaver ship, turning idly a short distance away. Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in his seat, and fixes his gaze on the monitor. 

*

After a second round of rations, Pete takes the second shift. Brendon is weird about it, offering to take it for him, but Pete is insistent. Spencer gets it, knows that Pete can’t stand sitting still and doing nothing while Patrick loses more colour with every passing hour.

Marshall takes Pete's place, promising to keep Patrick warm. Spencer doesn’t know whether or not he’s disturbed by Marshall’s attention to Patrick, but Patrick gives him a vacant smile when he climbs on the bed.

Spencer crawls into his absent space beside Brendon who gives him a wary look, and then turns it on Ryan. Ryan reaches across and Spencer meets him halfway, lacing their hands together over Brendon’s stomach. Spencer imagines how things might be different if they were somewhere else right now. How their hands might slip together beneath the fabric of Brendon’s pyjamas to find bare skin.

Instead, Spencer lays his head close to Brendon’s and Ryan mirrors him. Brendon lets out a slow breath and lays his hand over theirs, grip light. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then shakes his head, closing it again.

Spencer closes his eyes—he feels heavy and weightless at the same time, and wonders if it’s the sedative working. 

*

Ryan wakes to Pete’s voice in his ear, hissing his and Spencer’s names.

“What is it?” Ryan asks blearily, lifting his head. In their sleep, he, Brendon, and Spencer have become entangled, and it takes them a moment to extract themselves.

Pete helps Ryan to his feet, beckoning them out into the hall. “What is it, Pete?” Spencer asks. He still doesn’t look awake, and Ryan feels much the same way, like his head is filled with cotton. In the cargo hold he can hear the others stirring awake. That means they’ve been on this station over sixteen hours…

“There are two ships approaching. Four hours out, and they’re definitely on their way here.”

Ryan shakes his head, trying to clear it. “But that’s a good thing, right?” He can’t be too sure, because the look on Pete’s face tells him otherwise.

“One’s an Alliance transport, and the other one is a _hornet_ class,” Pete tells him grimly.

“Wait, the zebra one?” Spencer asks.

Pete shakes his head. “I can’t really tell, this far out, but I think it’s a safe bet. And given the communications I picked up, I’d say it’s a fair bet that Alliance transport belongs to Magistrate Beckett.”

“And they’re on their way here?” Spencer frowns, putting his hands on his hips. “But they shouldn’t see anything other than the derelict, from that range.”

“There’s more,” Pete says. “I was bored up there, waiting for you to wake up, so I was poking around with communications, seeing if maybe I could boost our signal. Right after we arrived, when we split up, someone accessed a computer in one of the guest quarters using an interface to send a subspace message.”

“I don’t—is it the Reavers? Are some of them still on the station?”

“No, Spence, this is really sophisticated technology,” Pete says. “They’re the ones that sent the message to Aberdeen. It’s—I think it’s Brendon.”

“What?” Ryan asks, voice weirdly loud to his own ears.

“Think about it,” Pete whispers. “It couldn’t have been Marshall—he was in the hold with Patrick and Zack. We _know_ Jon and Vicky, and you two were together the whole time.”

Spencer turns back to the hold and Ryan’s hot on his heels. Brendon lifts his head to face them the moment they re-enter, wearing a knowing look. “You called Magistrate Beckett,” Spencer says.

The others pause in what they’re doing, turning to look at him. “What are you talking about?” Jon asks, looking back and forth between Spencer and Brendon.

“Are you a _spy_?” Spencer demands.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brendon says, getting to his feet.

“What’s ridiculous?” Spencer says, pacing towards him. “You haven’t behaved like any whore I’ve ever heard of, showing off all your fancy skills, and now you contact the man who, in all likelihood, sent that _hornet_ class after us.”

“We’re kind of in dire straights, in case you hadn’t noticed. We don’t have a great many options,” Brendon says snottily. “Magistrate Beckett can help us.”

“Help us by locking us up in his brig?” Ryan seethes. “Or maybe he’ll just finish off the job he started earlier, now that we don’t have any way of fighting back.”

Brendon lets out a frustrated sigh. “He wasn’t supposed to get here so soon.”

“What, so he arrives while we’re all asleep and helpless?” Ryan asks.

“No, so you’d be safe and could see there was nothing to worry about,” Brendon says. He looks different from how Ryan’s ever seen him before—older. “The Magistrate is an old friend of mine. He won’t harm you. He’ll help us get to the Core.”

“An—an old friend of yours?” Pete asks. “Somehow I have a difficult time believing that the Magistrate of Aberdeen spends a lot of timing hanging out with common whores?”

Marshall scrambles to his feet, stepping between Brendon and Pete. “You don’t even know who he is, he could—”

“Marshall!” Brendon’s voice is sharp with reprimand. He turns his gaze on Pete. “I’m not a whore, you _bèndàn_. I am a Companion registered with the Guild, and Magistrate Beckett is a customer of mine.”

It’s curious, why Brendon would stop Marshall from speaking, only to reveal the truth himself. Ryan would like very much to get Marshall on his own at this moment, to see what he was _going_ to say. 

“Why wouldn’t you just _say_ so?” Pete asks, drawing nearer to him. “Why would you lie about it?”

“I find it easier to operate without drawing unwanted attention when others underestimate me,” Brendon says dismissively.

“And why don’t you want to draw attention?” Spencer demands, crowding him from the other side. “So you’re a Companion, _who cares_?”

“I had no reason to trust you people when I first boarded your ship,” Brendon says, refusing to take a step back. “I needed to get to the Core—”

“Why, so you can have more dignified sex?” Pete drawls.

Brendon’s look is more scathing than any words could ever be. “I don’t need to explain myself to _you_ ,” he says coolly. “William will be here shortly, and then you will see for yourselves, there is nothing to be worried about.”

“Have you been honest about anything?” Ryan whispers. His chest feels like someone’s pressing down on it and he can’t get enough air. Companions are trained in manipulation, and how was Ryan so _stupid_ to fall for any of it. How was Spencer?

“I have hardly been dishonest about anything,” Brendon says, and there’s an edge of desperation in his tone, pleading with Ryan to believe him, but Ryan isn’t going to be tricked again. “As Pete so succinctly pointed out, whoring and Companionship are, very generally speaking, the same line of work.”

“Whatever,” Vicky interrupts. “I can kick his ass, you know.”

“I would like very much to see you try,” Brendon tells her pleasantly.

“Would you stop it!” Patrick shouts, levering himself to his feet. His face is white and drawn, and sways dangerously, stumbling forward a few steps. “Brendon’s right, we don’t have any other choice right now.” He dips unsteadily and Marshall’s at his side in a second, slipping an arm around his waist.

“Get away from him!” Pete snaps.

Patrick just glares, clinging to Marshall. “This is stupid. They’re our _friends_ ,” he says. “Maybe we should trust them until they give us a reason not to.”

Ryan thinks they have a lot of reasons not to trust Brendon, at least, but he bites his tongue against saying so. They don’t have any choice, he knows. Even with the weapons Vicky has, they wouldn’t stand a chance against an Alliance transport. They might be able to fight off the first wave or two, but it would still end the same way.

“Fine,” Spencer says, no doubt reaching the same conclusion. He storms out of the hold, mumbling under his breath in Mandarin.

“If you screw us over,” Pete says, and leaves it at that, pointing at Brendon’s chest.

Brendon looks hesitantly at Ryan, like he wants to say something. But he shakes his head, and goes out of the hold in the opposite direction as Spencer. 

*

Magistrate Beckett’s ship docks at the station twenty hours after they arrive. Ryan is grudgingly impressed by the speed of the ship, but mostly concerned with what will happen once they’re on board.

The receiving room of the transport is pristine and brightly lit, and there are several crew members waiting when the crew of the _Nevada_ steps aboard. The tall, slender man at the lead is dressed in dark grey suit with shiny, heeled shoes under his spats, soft looking gloves, and a bowler perched atop his long, curly hair.

The man spreads his arms, smiling warmly, and says, “Brendon, _bǎo bèi_.”

Brendon meets him, murmuring, “William, you are a very welcome sight.” He clasps Beckett’s forearms, and going up on his toes to press a kiss to each of his cheeks. 

“And all of your little friends!” Beckett exclaims, when they part. He snaps his fingers, and the men behind him leap into action. “Take the wounded to the infirmary. The rest of you can follow me. I’ve had the mess prepare a special meal.”

Ryan exchanges a look with Spencer, whose expression tells him to go with it, for now. “I’m going with Patrick,” Pete says to Beckett, daring him to tell him no.

“We have an excellent medical staff aboard,” Beckett says, frowning slightly. “But if you wish…”

Pete just scowls, following the men leading Patrick and Zack away on stretchers. Ryan lingers at Spencer’s side, uncertain. “They won’t hurt you,” Beckett says. “In fact, I think there’s an oath, or something.”

“Maybe later,” Ryan says, tossing his head back.

“Ryan,” Brendon says, his tone exasperated and fond, and Ryan doesn’t know how to deal with it. “Please, they’ll take good care of you.” William cocks his head, looking between Ryan and Brendon with interest.

“You should go,” Spencer agrees, nudging him forward. There’s a pretty young woman with her curly blonde hair held back in a ponytail waiting for him near the door. Ryan’s head is pounding, and he’s maybe seeing double, which is the only reason he goes with her. 

*

The mess looks less like the dining hall of a ship and more like a barroom. Several crewmembers are playing everything from chess to cards to billiards. A jukebox on the wall is playing Earth-That-Was music at an agreeable volume.

Gabe is sprawled out at one of the tables, and when he sees them, he jumps to his feet. “Bden, _chiquito_ , your friends tried to shoot up my ship!”

“You fired at us, first,” Brendon says, unimpressed.

Gabe puts his hand to his chest as if wounded. “That is categorically untrue.” Brendon stares at him, unmoved. “Well, alright, but to be fair, that first shot wasn’t supposed to hit you. I had to have a talk with Nate about drunk firing.”

Vicky shoves her way past Brendon, glowering at Gabe, and his face lights up. “Vicky, no one can glare at me like you do.”

“What are you doing here?” she demands, hands on hips. With all her weapons strapped on, it is a fairly intimidating sight.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Gabe leers at her.

“You know this guy, Victoria?” Spencer asks.

“Oh, me and Vicky-T go way back, don’t we?” Gabe says and tries to put an affectionate arm around her shoulders. She ducks out from under it, socking him hard in the shoulder.

“ _¡Hijo de puta_! _I_ was simply doing a favour for a friend in need.” He gestures to Brendon.

Spencer turns his glare on Brendon, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him aside. “That ship attacked us because of _you_?” Behind them, Vicky is giving Gabe a similar line of questioning.

“They never actually intended us any harm. Gabe was meant to steer you away from Qin Shi.”

“Oh my god,” Spencer breathes, realisation dawning in his eyes. “You’re the reason that Alliance blockade showed up, and that mine field.”

“Those mines were mostly dead, and Shane is a dear friend of mine—”

“Is that some kind of Companion code?” Spencer spits out, cheeks red. “He’s _Alliance_. Was there any truth in anything you said?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Brendon hisses. “This is not the time or place—”

Spencer’s grip tightens painfully and Brendon winces but doesn’t jerk away. “Don’t be naïve, Spencer. Not everyone who is a part of the Alliance supports them. Shane’s father was a war hero, and Shane had little choice but to follow in his shoes. He uses his position to smuggle goods and medicine to settlers on the Rim.”

“Why are you doing this?” Spencer sounds defeated and Brendon wants to reach out to him, cup his cheek. Even more frightening, he wants to tell Spencer the truth.

Instead, he straightens his back and twists his wrist out of Spencer’s grip. “Things are changing in the Core, as you have pointed out. My presence is necessary, to protect my interests.”

Spencer snorts. “Your interests. People are dying, the government is falling apart, and all you’re worried about is yourself.”

Brendon shouldn’t be upset by Spencer’s poor opinion of him, but it stings. All the same, he can’t afford to make himself any more vulnerable than he already has.

“Why us? Why didn’t you just use one of your Alliance friends to get you to the Core.”

“Shane and Cash must follow the orders of their superiors, and though I would trust them with my life, William and Gabe aren’t the most…reliable, when it comes to timely transportation.” Brendon shrugs, as if it means nothing to him. “I paid for my passage and I kept you safe.”

“As terribly interesting as this all is,” William says, easing between Spencer and Brendon. “I would think it best, given your ordeal, to have dinner and retire for the evening. These questions can wait until the morning.”

The look Spencer gives him is rebellious, and Brendon can see the effort it takes for him not to snap at William. He gives Brendon a coldly dismissive sneer and turns to the table that has been set aside for them.

Dinner is a gourmet affair, as is to be expected from William. No one enjoys it, eating in silence. The tension is palpable, putting Brendon off his meal. After, William shows them to their quarters, two suites across the hall from one another, each sumptuously appointed and containing four rooms.

The others have returned from the infirmary and gathered in one of the suites. Brendon is relieved to see them looking well. Ryan’s wound is nothing more than a thin red line, mostly covered by his hair and Zack’s leg is heavily bandaged. Patrick’s face is still pale, but he’s eating heartily of the food that William had delivered to the quarters. It’s the first time he’s eaten in over twenty hours.

“We’ve set a course for Londinium,” William announces. “At our current speed we should arrive in nine days.”

“You’re just going to take us?” Ryan bursts out. “Just like that? You don’t expect any sort of recompense?”

William’s smile is slow and catlike. “Nothing that you can pay,” he says. He extends a hand to Brendon. Brendon takes it, stepping close to his side. “You needn’t concern yourself with it. Brendon and I will come to an agreement between ourselves.”

Alex gives Brendon an anxious look, which Brendon answers with a placating smile.

“I will have clothing brought to you in the morning, and feel free to make use of the Mess whenever you desire,” William tells them, and leads Brendon out.

In the lift, Brendon takes his hand back, giving William an arch look. “You don’t have to be such a jealous _hùndàn_ ,” he says.

“Oh, but did you see the looks on their faces?” William remarks, gleeful. “That is quite a crew you have.”

Brendon doesn’t respond, waiting until they are in William’s quarters to relax his posture. The rooms are much as he remembers them, comfortable, and casually elegant except where Gabe has managed to make a mark.

“So,” Gabe asks, lounging on the sofa, “ _mi cariños_ , threesome?”

William rolls his eyes, shoving away Gabe’s legs to make room for himself on the sofa. He gestures for Brendon to take the chair opposite.

“I suppose you wish to discuss your price,” Brendon says.

William eyes him appraisingly, and at length says, “How disconcerting it must be, to be on the other side.” Brendon gives him an unimpressed look. “You do know who your little friends are, don’t you?”

“They were Independents and they’re on their way into the Core. I can do the math.”

“Mmm,” William agrees. “I meant more specifically.”

Brendon refuses to allow his confusion show. “You mean besides insurgents?”

William’s grin turns smug. “Oh, well, this certainly is a reversal of our normal position. You’ve been out of the game too long, _bǎu bèi_.”

“William,” Brendon says, tone stern.

“You’re no fun anymore,” William pouts. “Your boy, Ryan?”

“What about him?” Brendon asks. His heart is pounding all of the sudden and his mind races, trying to piece together what he knows about Ryan. It doesn’t add up to much—rich kid from the Core who fought with the Independents. He could tell, from their reaction to the news feed, that they had more than a passing interest in recent events, but he’s ashamed to realise he’s spent more time developing inappropriate relations with Ryan and Spencer than gleaning pertinent information.

“It’s understandable, I suppose,” William drawls. “I mean, no one’s seen him in almost a decade.”

“William!” Brendon almost shouts.

“Ryan, as in Ryan Ross. As in George Ryan Ross the Third. Not a very creative alias, if you ask me, and I really enjoyed the way your dear Captain Smith was accusing _you_ of being untruthful,” William says.

Brendon knows, rationally, that William has no reason to lie, but he still has trouble believing it. “There are a lot of people looking for him. Luckily he’s stayed off the radar since the war, or he’d have been dead days ago. His likeness has been broadcast to every Alliance ship in the Verse. Every law enforcement official, not to mention quite a few Operatives, are out for his head.

“I gotta hand it to ‘em, it’s pretty genius,” Gabe says, “sneaking into the Core on that _trozo de mierda_ ship of theirs. No one would have looked twice at them if they hadn’t lost their pulse beacon.”

“They’re lucky you were with them,” William says. “If they’d gone their original route like that…”

Brendon can’t dwell on all this new information right now, it’s too much. He clears his throat. “Well, I suppose that I am lucky as well, to have you to rescue me. You spoke of payment?”

“All business with you, Urie,” Gabe tsks. He leans over the coffee table between them to pour Brendon a glass of amber coloured liquid. “What about that threesome?”

“You couldn’t afford me, Gabe,” Brendon says.

“You don’t know that,” Gabe says, indignant.

Brendon pins him with an unimpressed look. “And what, might I ask, did you spend your credits on the last time you managed to sober up long enough to do some pirating?”

Gabe’s eyes glance around shiftily and mutters, “Upgraded the _Cobra_ ’s sound system. Billvy, you’ll buy me a threesome.”

William gives him an indulgent smile. “While it would be well within my right to ask it, given the circumstances, I believe I bought the last one. And besides, there is something else I would like from the littlest Urie.”

William and Gabe are dear friends, but at the end of the day, they are politicians, and it is for that reason that Brendon hoped to avoid this situation.

“First of all, I want your assurance that whatever changes take place in our fine government, I will keep my position as Magistrate of Aberdeen.”

Brendon nods; he hadn’t expected any less. “Also,” William continues, “once you’ve taken over, I want sole expansion rights to the Blue Sun corporation, in the Kalidasa system.”

“There are other planets with greater need,” Brendon says. “I can give you pharmaceuticals.” Even that is more than he would like to just hand over, but it is their most lucrative, and William will settle for no less.

William leans back in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and lacing his fingers together. “I want twenty-five percent of the controlling interest.”

Brendon can’t help but laugh out loud. “I’ll give you ten percent, and you’ll consider yourself lucky.”

“Fine,” William says. Brendon honestly didn’t expect him to give in so easily.

“Fine,” Brendon agrees.

“Excellent!” William claps his hands together. “ _Now_ we can talk about threesomes.” 

*

There’s enough space in the suites for each of them to have his own room, but Spencer isn’t surprised that Ryan follows him into one of the larger bedrooms. Beckett’s ship is overly luxurious—no bunks and fold up toilets. Each room comes equipped with its own separate bathroom, complete with tub and commode. The beds are as nice as any five star hotel, and big enough to fit a small family.

Ryan looks young, still in the same pyjamas he was wearing what seems like months ago, in Spencer’s bed, the first time they kissed. Spencer sits beside him, searching out his hand and lacing their fingers together. “How about once we get to Londinium we never go flying ever again,” Ryan proposes, laying his head on Spencer’s shoulder.

Spencer laughs. He feels heavy all over, so bone-weary he thinks he could lay his head down and sleep for a year. “I think we’ll be too busy to even think about it.”

Ryan isn’t any closer to Spencer than ever before, but now all Spencer can think about are the possibilities. That he could bend his head and press his mouth to Ryan’s, that he could lay Ryan out over the comforter, touch him all over. He does _not_ think about Beckett doing the same with Brendon right now.

“Hey,” Spencer whispers, ducking his head. Ryan meets him halfway, parting his mouth in welcoming. Spencer’s hand slips up his waist, under his shirt, pressing to the warm, soft skin of Ryan’s stomach.

This is so much easier than thinking about anything to do with Brendon.

Just as Spencer is considering getting their clothing out of the way, the chime of their door sounds. Ryan breaks the kiss, resting his cheek against Spencer’s shoulder and calling out, “Come in.” Spencer has to bite back a groan of frustration, fingers curling just above the waist of Ryan’s pants.

Vicky strides in, spares them an apologetic look, and comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips. “So, you guys wanna get out of here?”

Ryan meets Spencer’s eye, raising a brow to indicate his confusion. “And go where, precisely?” Spencer asks her.

“To Persephone, like we planned, and meet the guy Mikey’s got there,” Vicky says, as if it should be obvious.

“Um, Vicks, our ship kinda got blown up, in case you forgot,” Ryan says slowly.

“Don’t make me punch your stupid face,” Vicky warns him. “We can take Gabe’s ship. I know all the codes.”

“Yeah, okay,” Spencer says, and laughs. “I’m gonna take a nap. You let us know how that goes.”

Vicky just stands there, glaring, and Ryan and Spencer exchange uncertain looks. “Are you serious?” Spencer sputters.

“Spencer Smith, I am tired, sore, and I’m due, okay, so I’m really fucking cranky. Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.”

“Yeah, but his ship is travelling with this one, right? I’m pretty sure someone would notice if we took it for a joyride.” Ryan is unable to keep disbelief from bleeding into his voice.

Vicky arches a brow. “This is Gabe’s crew we’re talking about. A crew I was a part of, once upon a time. Trust me, joyriding would not be looked at amiss.”

“But why?” Ryan asks, bordering on whining. They’re all tired; the sedatives made them sleep, but they certainly didn’t make Spencer feel rested. He wants some real sleep. “They’re taking us to the Core, anyway.”

“Well, for one thing, the _Cobra_ is smaller and faster. We could make the same trip in seven days,” Vicky says.

“All these fancy class six ships,” Spencer mutters.

“Secondly, I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly want to be beholden to William Beckett,” Vicky continues, ignoring him. “Brendon can go have his little threesome—I’m sorry—and do all his Companion _xiā shuō bā dào_ , but I don’t want to be a part of it.

“I think she’s being serious, Spence,” Ryan says in mute wonder.

“I will cut you,” Vicky says. “I know everyone’s being all nice now, but do you think they’re going to stay that way if they figure out who you are? Beckett might be all cosy with Brendon, but I’m not sure how far that’s going to get us if he has orders about what to do with the younger George Ross.”

“Won’t it just go up on the Cortex as soon as they realise what we’ve done? Law enforcement will be after us,” Spencer points out.

Vicky waves a dismissive hand. “Gabe isn’t going to report us. He _owes_ me. Double, since he attacked the _Nevada_.”

Ryan looks at Spencer and shrugs his shoulders as if to ask, _Well_? If Spencer is honest with himself, he isn’t sure how he’s going to make it through the next nine days watching Brendon being all lovey-dovey with Beckett. And, apparently, Gabe.

“The sooner we put that behind us, the better,” Ryan murmurs, and Spencer knows he’s thinking the same thing.

“We’re seriously going to do this,” Spencer muses.

Vicky snaps her fingers. “The sooner the better. No one’s going to bother Gabe about the _Cobra_ going off until the morning, which gives us plenty of time to get out of range. I’ve already told the others.”

“What about Marshall?” Ryan asks.

“Patrick convinced him to get some sleep,” Vicky says. “Look, are we doing this?” 

*

Perhaps it’s due to the late hour, but the ship is surprisingly empty. Spencer keeps expecting to round a corner and come face to face with some random crewman, or security, but all seven of them make it down to the cargo bay without incident.

The _Cobra_ is just as garishly decorated on the inside as on the outside, but at least it’s darker, so Spencer can’t quite make out all the horrid details. The halls are mostly black, lined in purple and pink lights that make his fingernails glow.

“This is seriously creepy,” Ryan whispers.

“You were part of the crew here?” Pete asks, voice full of awe.

“We’re going to get caught before we even get anywhere,” Patrick mutters.

There is no rhyme or reason to the design of the ship. Spencer’s been inside _hornet_ class ships before, but this one looks like it’s been gutted and entirely redone. There are random nooks and crannies filled with odds and ends that look like they belong in some Earth-That-Was museum. 

Dance music is coming from somewhere—or maybe from everywhere. It sounds like the music Vicky listens to, and suddenly her whole dance party thing makes a lot more sense.

When they stumble onto the bridge, it isn’t at all what Spencer expects, like something from a science fiction movie from hundreds of years ago, before humans knew space travel was possible—lots of exposed wires and bulkheads, tubes of neon light framing the view screen, hundreds upon hundreds of switches, buttons, and gears that can’t possibly all have purposes.

The comm. station has been replaced by a dj’s table where a slender, Sihnon male is mixing. There are far more people on the bridge than could ever be necessary—men and women of various ages and in radically different dress—all dancing like Vicky taught the _Nevada_ to.

“Victoria!” An exceedingly tall, slender man in a grey uniform sweeps her in a hug. Spencer’s surprised to see that she doesn’t resist or break something vital of his. Instead, she hugs him back just as tightly, eyes closing, lips curling in a grin.

“Ryland,” she says, when she parts, still smiling widely. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Where have you _been_? Where did you come from?” Ryland asks, blinking and looking around them. He spots Spencer and the others and gives them a blankly pleasant nod of greeting.

“There was a Reaver attack and a distress signal…” Vicky trails off when it’s obvious none of this is ringing any bells for Ryland. “You know what, it doesn’t really matter. This is my crew.” She introduces them and Ryland shakes their hands, effusively kind. “We’re gonna borrow the ship.”

Ryland’s brow furrows. “Gabe’s okay with that?”

“Gabe doesn’t need to know about that,” Vicky says, with just enough threat in her voice to make the hair on Spencer’s neck stand on end.

Ryland holds his hands out in front of his chest. “Good enough for me. Nate, baby, we’re going for a spin.”

The man in the pilot’s seat spins around. “When did you get here?” he asks Vicky. He has a red plastic cup in his hand and a sleepy smile on his face.

“Okay, Nate, get out of the seat,” Vicky says. Nate obliges her cheerfully, wandering off into the party. “Patrick, you’re up.”

Patrick looks at the helm, shaking his head. “I don’t—what did they _do_ to this _ship_?”

Vicky leans over his shoulder, bringing up an interactive screen. “Lay in the course here, by touch. Nav-sat readings are here.” She taps a few buttons and there’s a scrolling list of posts on the right side of the screen. “I’ll have Tony keep an eye on it tonight, so you can get some rest.”

Patrick nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he settles into the seat. It won’t take him long to grow accustomed to the new system. That’s part of why Spencer chose him—Patrick’s adaptable, and a born flyer.

He sets the course and selects a medium speed. They don’t want to attract any undue attention, so until they have some distance between them and Beckett’s ship, they can’t seem like they’re in any hurry. Patrick hesitates before engaging the course. Spencer knows he feels bad about Marshall, but what Vicky said about someone on the crew recognising Ryan has filled him with a quiet urgency.

Pete leans over, squeezing his shoulder gently and leaning over to whisper, “Come on, Trick.” Patrick curses under his breath and engages.

For a moment, they’re all holding their breath, waiting for Beckett’s ship to react. But the seconds tick by and turn into minutes, and there’s not so much as a questioning hail.

“Told you,” Vicky says smugly. “It’s almost too easy.”

When Spencer is satisfied that things are taken care of on the bridge, and after they’ve been introduced to Tony, who seems at least marginally sober, and who will being keeping an eye on their course, Vicky leads them off to the guest quarters.

“Who _were_ all those people?” Jon asks in wonder, when they’re in the much quieter hallway.

“Mostly love bots,” Vicky says. “Gabe likes to liberate them.”

Jon looks to Spencer as if he can somehow make sense of things. Spencer can only shrug helplessly in answer.

The quarters on the _Cobra_ are much less lavish than those on Beckett’s ship, but Spencer prefers it this way, even if he could do without the leopard print sheets and orange shag rug in his room.

Once the door is closed behind Vicky, Spencer tumbles onto the bunk, not even bothering to turn down the sheets. It’s only five minutes before Ryan enters and Spencer’s already almost asleep. He manages to roll onto his side and lift an arm for Ryan to crawl beneath.

“Spence,” Ryan murmurs, lips brushing Spencer’s throat as he speaks.

“Hmm?”

Ryan sighs, and even in the dark, with his eyes closed, Spencer can see the sad expression that comes with it. “I don’t want to miss him,” he says. Spencer doesn’t know what to say, so he just holds on tighter. 

*

William’s bed is the most comfortable Brendon has slept on since he left the Core, and lying with Gabe pressed warm and solid against his back is nice. The sex was very enjoyable and relaxing, and if Brendon thought of someone other than Gabe and William, well, he would not have been the first Companion to do so.

He _is_ very tired and his muscles are loose, and yet sleep will not come to him. Beyond the window, the black of space is empty and unchanging, and it does not help distract Brendon’s mind from unpleasant thoughts. The thought, for example, that he cannot keep doing this.

When Brendon made the choice to return to Sihnon and fix the situation at Blue Sun, he had known that he would have to resign from the Guild. Then, it was about priorities and practicalities. That line of reasoning was simple and acceptable.

This…this irrational guilt that’s making him feel ill is so far from acceptable Brendon doesn’t have words for it. Quitting the Guild was meant to be a consequence of his upward mobility, not because of some fleeting and unfulfilled romance.

Brendon rises silently from the bed, carefully lifting Gabe’s arm and lowering it again once he’s free. Gabe makes a face in his sleep, burrowing back into William’s embrace. Brendon can’t help a fond smile at the sight.

He borrows one of William’s dressing gowns. The sleeves are ridiculously long on him, but anything is better than his bloodstained pyjamas. He’d like to burn them, given the opportunity, or just jettison them out into space.

It’s early morning on the ship; no doubt Marshall and the others are asleep. Brendon curls up on the sofa in William’s lounge and wishes he had his music box. Most of his belongings from the _Nevada_ are replaceable, but the box was a gift from the House Mistress at Madrassa.

She passed shortly after Brendon left for the Rim, and even if she hadn’t, Brendon is fairly certain she would not be pleased with the actions he plans on taking. Or with the fact that he has, apparently, developed inappropriate feelings for two men who aren’t even his clients.

Music has always helped sooth him, and he could use soothing now. The Reaver attack was frightening, and Brendon still can’t recall entirely what happened. His various trainings kicked in, and he ran on autopilot. He knows he should be more shaken up by the whole ordeal, but a small vicious voice in the back of his head is telling him it was better than he deserved. His family created those things.

There’s no doubt in Brendon’s mind that his father was involved in the creation of the Paxilon Hydroclorate, as well as in the cover up of what happened on Miranda. He only hopes that his siblings knew nothing of it.

Brendon wonders if perhaps it was this situation with their fathers that somehow drew him to Ryan. That maybe without knowing they saw something familiar within each other. But that doesn’t explain why Brendon feels equally drawn to Spencer.

Just thinking about it makes him angry, and the act of becoming angry only makes him angrier. He doesn’t allow himself to feel anger, but these two make him _furious_. He lied from necessity, just as they did, and he would expect understanding rather than condemnation, given that they are in a similar situation.

For over an hour, he stews in his feelings of anger and guilt and regret, and finally decides he’s had enough. It’s only just six in the morning, ship time, but he feels justified in interrupting their sleep, as they have interrupted his.

There’s no one in the halls, for which Brendon is thankful, when he belatedly realises he’s walking about in a robe. It’s unlike him not to pay attention to these things. Just another reason to be annoyed by Ryan and Spencer.

The room set aside for Ryan is empty and Brendon isn’t really surprised that Ryan is sleeping in Spencer’s room, but he is dismayed. He rings the chime to Spencer’s door twice before overriding the controls to open the door. If they are going to be hypocrites, he has no problem being self-righteous in turn.

The bed is empty and looks untouched, covers still tucked in place. Brendon frowns, ducking his head into the just as empty and unused bathroom. It’s possible they’ve moved to one of the other rooms.

Alex is sleeping fitfully in his room, when Brendon checks, but the room to his other side, set aside for Pete and Patrick, is empty. Heart beating quickly, Brendon dashes across the hall, overriding the controls to each of the rooms in the second suite.

He accesses the computer in the main lounge of the suite, stomach dropping as he reads through the reports of the evening. Seven hours ago, a shuttle was taken from the cargo bay to the _Cobra_. Brendon accesses the comm. to the bridge, asking about the _Cobra_ , only to have his fears confirmed. 

*

“They stole your ship,” Brendon says, standing over the bed.

Gabe gives him a bleary-eyed look before rolling over to bury his face in William’s hair. “Nah, they’ll be back. They do that shit all the time.”

“No,” Brendon says, impatient. “Spencer and Ryan. They took your ship. They’re all gone, and the _Cobra_ is, according to long distant scans, heading at top speed for Persephone.”

Gabe rolls back over, giving him an uncomprehending look. William sits up, looking inexplicably smug for someone who’s just been woken and told his lover’s ship has been stolen. “You went to see them,” he says, and glances at his bedside table. “At six in the morning.” Brendon purses his lips, holding back on a retort.

“That little minx,” Gabe says, comprehension coming as he wakes up more fully. “She and I are going to have words.”

“I don’t know how that boy hopes to live long enough to reach the Core, let alone become Prime Minister,” William says around a yawn.

“You aren’t going to report him,” Brendon tells him, voice even.

“ _Tranquilo_. No one’s reporting no one,” Gabe says. “Jesus, it’s too early. Can you come back to bed? Watching you be so awake is making my head hurt.”

At Brendon’s dark look, Gabe lets out a sigh, squeezing his eyes closed. “They’ll be fine.” William snorts and Gabe talks over him. “Ryland and Alex will make sure of it. They wouldn’t want to piss Vicky off.

Brendon leaves the room and goes to the Mess where the chef prepares him a bowl of sweet congee and honey glazed _you tiao_ for dipping. The meal is delicious and reminds him of his home on Sihnon. He knows it should be comforting, but he inexplicably wishes for Jon’s overdone toast and cold egg product. 

This ship is too large and too bright, and for all the numerous crewmembers, feels too empty. 

*

Travelling on the _Cobra_ is like being drunk and on hallucinogenic drugs twenty-four hours a day. Everyone is incredibly nice, if strange, and there’s always something interesting going on in one part of the ship or another. The cargo bay, for instance, has been turned into an old-fashioned cinema with velvet upholstered seats, where popcorn is served and where films from the past five hundred years are played constantly.

Under different circumstances, Ryan thinks he might enjoy it immensely, but right now he’s too anxious over what will happen when they reach Londinium to do anything but worry.

Spencer makes a round of the ship after lunch, just to check that everything is in order and that they’re on course. Despite their appearance, the crew of the _Cobra_ is actually very good at their job, and he returns with two red cups of rum and a splash of coke.

“From Jon,” he says, passing one to Ryan. “He says he can hear you thinking halfway across the ship.”

Ryan smiles and sets his cup aside untouched. Spencer watches him with pursed lips and sets his own cup down. “You know everything’s going to be okay now?” he asks.

Ryan shrugs. “Even if we get there fine, I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s why you have Mikey. And Pete. And me.” Spencer leans over the bed, bracing his hands on the mattress at either side of Ryan’s hips and Ryan goes back on his elbows, looking up from under his lashes. “You need to stop worrying.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asks. It’s as though all the air’s been sucked from the room, and just like that, he isn’t worrying any more.

Spencer hums in agreement and puts a knee up on the bed, leaning down. Ryan arches up to meet his mouth. It’s nothing more than a tease, Spencer’s lips brushing his lightly before moving away to dust kisses over his cheek and jaw. “So I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asks again, and can’t stop his moan of anticipation when Spencer settles more firmly over him, pressing him into the mattress.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, and sucks Ryan’s earlobe between his teeth. “We don’t leave this room for the next seven days.”

“Yes, _Spence_.” Ryan struggles between them to get out of his shirt and Spencer sits back on his heels, unbuttoning his own shirt and shrugging it off.

It should seem sudden, after all the years they’ve waited, but now that they’ve touched, Ryan doesn’t ever want to stop. When Spencer sinks down to him, skin against skin, Ryan can’t touch him enough, hands all over his back, around his neck, in his hair.

Spencer kisses like it’s breathing; it’s desperate, but it still feels tender, Spencer touching Ryan as though he’s something fragile. Ryan doesn’t like being handled like he could break, but the way Spencer does it makes him tremble and hold tighter.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Spencer whispers. His lips burn the skin of Ryan’s throat, teeth scraping gently and then with more pressure at the juncture of his shoulder and neck.

Ryan swallows hard, head falling back against the mattress. “Me too, Spence,” he pants, arching up in search of more skin against his. He laces his hand through Spencer’s hair, holding his mouth in place.

It’s almost too much—Ryan’s neck is sensitive and it feels like there’s a line straight from the place Spencer’s sucking to his cock, making it throb. He’s so hard already that it _hurts_ and he needs Spencer to touch him.

Spencer’s always been good at knowing just what Ryan needs, even before Ryan does sometimes. This is no exception, his hand sliding down Ryan’s chest, fingers tickling over his stomach. He makes quick work of the fastenings of Ryan’s borrowed pants, easing his hand inside.

The first touch makes Ryan bite his lip against crying out. Spencer’s fist closes around him, stroking slowly. He brushes his mouth over Ryan’s, easing his lip from between his teeth. “No one can hear you but me,” Spencer murmurs, eyes flicking over Ryan’s face.

“Spencer,” he whines, thrusting his hips up, trying to make Spencer go faster.

Spencer grins and licks his lips. “How did I know you wouldn’t have any patience in bed?” he asks.

Ryan opens his mouth to protest and Spencer tightens his grip, jerking up roughly. Ryan’s mouth closes on a groan, lids fluttering shut. He reaches out blindly, head spinning, and digs his fingers into Spencer’s arms, holding on.

“A week,” Spencer says, voice lower than Ryan’s ever heard it. “A week to do to you all the things I’ve thought about lying in the dark alone in my bunk.”

“Things?” Ryan echoes. He’s already embarrassingly close.

Spencer’s breath stirs Ryan’s hair as he leans closer to his ear. His stroke quickens and his voice is urgent when he speaks, “I’ve thought about sucking you off.” He presses his thumb just under the head of Ryan’s cock, where it’s most sensitive and Ryan draws a sharp breath through his teeth.

“About you fucking me,” Spencer says, with a moan in his voice. Ryan’s cock jumps at the suggestion and Spencer’s fingers trace over the head, smearing the precome, making everything slicker and better.

“Me fucking you,” Spencer says. “First with my fingers, spreading you open, making you beg me to fuck you, and then lining up, pushing inside of you, and you’re so tight—”

Ryan’s orgasm shudders through him, mouth falling open on a wordless cry. Spencer strokes him through it, lips pressing against his temple. Ryan can feel his smile, and the way Spencer is hard, erection tucked against Ryan’s thigh.

“That was pretty hot,” Spencer says. He trails kisses down Ryan’s cheek and catches his mouth in quick, happy kiss.

Ryan smiles and strains his neck up for another, longer kiss. He’s boneless with pleasure, and tired, but he manages to reach between them, unbuttoning Spencer’s pants and tugging down the zipper. Spencer’s cock is hot and so hard in his hand, and every time Ryan’s ever thought about this, he’s been terrified by the possibility. He still is, heart fluttering wildly and mind racing, but it feels exhilarating.

Spencer’s head drops to rest against Ryan’s shoulder. He thrusts into Ryan’s fist, and Ryan can feel him trembling with the effort to hold back. His imaginings have always been vague, but hearing Spencer put it into words makes Ryan want it all the more. He can’t help but think of Spencer thrusting into him. Spencer’s arms quaver where he’s holding himself up and he sets his teeth against Ryan’s skin, biting down when he comes over Ryan’s hand. Ryan wants to see his face, and it hits him that he will. He can have this whenever he wants.

Ryan wraps his arms around Spencer’s back, pulls him down until Spencer rests against him, pinning him down to the bed. He feels so full and safe, trapped under Spencer’s solid weight, and somehow, nothing feels as though it has changed between them. 

*

Over the past seven years, Spencer has travelled all throughout the Verse and visited almost every distant planet and moon. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the Core until they pass Pelorum. Suddenly there are mass transports, taxis, and dozens upon dozens of private crafts zipping through space.

They touch down at Eavesdown Docks in mid-afternoon. It’s summer on the planet, dry and miserably hot in the slums. The crew of the _Cobra_ part with them there, wishing them well, and Spencer is still slightly bemused by how easily they went along with having their ship absconded with, but they’ve more than proven themselves to him.

Mikey’s contact meets them in a dingy basement bar themed after a British pub. Bob Bryar is an intimidating looking guy, smart in his blue and grey uniform labelling him as a law enforcement official.

Not for the first time this week, Spencer thinks about what Brendon said, about having friends inside the Alliance. He thinks he could have been more sympathetic to Brendon about the whole thing.

“Minister Ross is having all vessels crossing the orbit of Santo searched for you two,” Bob tells them. “It’s all hush-hush, nothing official of course. But he’s got someone in the Privy feeding him intel, and they know that Mikey plans to present you at a special hearing of the Judicial Committee day after tomorrow.”

After all this time and the events of the past few weeks, it’s hard to believe this is finally happening, and so quickly.

Ryan was raised to be a politician and Spencer has no doubt he’ll be an excellent Prime Minister. Already he’s behaving differently, as if re-entering the Core has reminded him of who he is. His eyes are colder, posture straighter, and his face gives away nothing. He is polite to Bob and his crew, but distant.

The trip to Londinium is uneventful thanks to their cover. Bob keeps them locked in the Brig under false names, and no one looks twice at the prisoners on their way past Santo.

It’s a fourteen-hour trip and the others sleep most of the way. Ryan and Spencer stay awake, huddled together in a corner of their cell.

“I’m not sure they’ll like who I am, on Londinium,” Ryan says, looking at their sleeping crew. “I’m not sure I will. Who I was, before the war—I was spoiled and arrogant, and I wasn’t really that different from my father.”

“Hey,” Spencer says, shaking his knee. “You’re talking about my best friend.”

Ryan cracks a sad smile and lays his hand over Spencer’s. “Don’t leave me.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, and leans over to kiss him. Ryan makes a soft sound against his mouth. “That’s never gonna happen.”

Ryan rests their foreheads together and takes a deep breath. “I know you’re angry at him—I mean, I am too—but I miss Brendon,” he whispers. “I know he lied about being a Companion, but I don’t think he was lying about the other stuff. About all his siblings, or the way he grew up, or how he felt about the Alliance. And you know, a lot of lords do give their youngest to the Guild for the reason he said.”

Spencer knows, and it still makes his stomach turn to think of Brendon, twelve-years-old and never having gotten into any mischief, being sent off to the training house.

If not for him, Spencer isn’t sure he and Ryan would be where they are now with one another. Ryan isn’t saying it, but Spencer knows what he’s thinking. Once things have settled down, it wouldn’t be too difficult to track Brendon down on Sihnon.

Spencer _knows_ Companions are taught to entice their clients. He knows it’s possible that Brendon was just using their attraction towards him to keep them blind to his charade. But Spencer saw the honest fear in Brendon’s eyes that night in bed, like he was close to losing himself. Spencer’s never been one to believe in fate and he doesn’t trust easily, but something about Brendon _felt_ familiar. It made Spencer want to know him. Even now he still does.

“I am angry,” Spencer says. “But I miss him too.” 

*

The Way Manor was modelled after the Tudor-style Montacute House of Earth-That-Was, complete with stone animals and mullioned windows, and the statues of the Nine Worthies. It sits on several hundred acres of beautifully manicured and maintained gardens and forest.

Spencer’s family’s land abuts the Way land in the south, and when they were children, Ryan and Spencer liked to play in the woods. Oftentimes, Gerard would join them and tell them stories that were probably too old for them, but Gerard never discriminated against them for being so much younger than him.

Back then, the manor had been a welcome sight, a place where they could escape their parents. Now, walking through the great hall, Spencer is filled with a curious sensation of dread. It’s plain ridiculous given all that he’s seen and experienced in the past seven years, but this moment feels like the turning point he’s been waiting for his entire life.

The rest of the crew is shown to their rooms and Spencer and Ryan are led to Mikey’s home office. Mikey’s mouth quirks up at one side when he sees them, and he rises to give them both quick, perfunctory hugs. “Glad you made it,” he says, like they’ve come for afternoon tea rather than crossing half the system to stage a coup.

“Your father hasn’t learned of your arrival, yet,” Mikey tells Ryan, cutting straight to business. “Apparently some Magistrate’s vessel reported a Reaver attack on a trading ship outside of station five, which, according to General Valdés of the _Regan_ , was the last place you were known to be alive. I think the Minister is taking it as some sort of divine intervention on his behalf. But as soon as I present you to the Judicial Committee, he’s going to know.

“After speaking to you, the Committee is going to go into deliberation. The House of Commons has already moved for impeachment, but it’s up to the Lords, now. Gee, Frank, and Ray are working on securing the necessary votes, but there are a number of peers in the Minister’s pocket, and quite a few others who are afraid of what will happen if they vote against him and he isn’t impeached.”

Ryan nods, all cool, easy confidence. This is the Ryan that Spencer knew would come out to play, even when Ryan doubted himself. “The Lords will convict him,” he says, as though the vote has already been passed.

Mikey looks as pleased as he ever does with his mouth set in a straight line. “There are going to be a lot of questions about where you’ve been, and your participation in the war, on the side of the Independents.”

“Yes. And if Parliament wishes to avoid another war, I’m certain they’ll see the appeal of having a Prime Minister with whom all the angry Independents can identify,” Ryan says. “You don’t need to test me, Mikey. I’m ready.”

“I know,” Mikey says. “I wouldn’t be risking everything on you if I didn’t believe you could do it.” 

*

Frank and Gerard’s penthouse on Sihnon overlooks an ocean of lights in the Great City. The sight is unlike any other Brendon has had the privilege of viewing, in all the Verse. A part of him would like to remain here, sipping tea on the balcony, removed from the bustle below. 

Through Mikey, Brendon has learned of Spencer and Ryan’s safe arrival on Londinium, which allows him to sigh in relief. Still, there are many steps between now and Ryan’s appointment as Prime Minister, and it’s partially up to Brendon to ensure that everything goes smoothly.

Since arriving on Sihnon, Brendon has been inundated with requests for his company, invitations to grand parties, and offers for a role as Personal Companion. It’s as if he hasn’t been gone any time at all, let alone two whole years.

“You’re going to have to see them,” Gerard tells him gently, when Frank is busy distracting Alex in the game room.

“It’s no problem,” Brendon says dismissively. “I have other concerns to deal with, first.”

“Brendon,” Gerard says, with a fond look, “you aren’t fooling me. Two weeks ago you were eager about your return to Sihnon, and to companioning.”

“And I still am,” Brendon persists. “Only I have to deal with things at the company, first.”

“Well, I’ve spoken to Ray and to Mikey. They and Frank have transferred ownership to you. The transaction will be finalised in the morning. You’ve taken care of the others?”

“Lady Palmer and Baroness Ivarsson have transferred their shares as well, and Eric has been purchasing small amounts under various aliases.” Brendon should be pleased by this turn of events—he is, in fact, though distantly. Most of his thoughts are occupied with what Ryan is doing to prepare for his own appearance tomorrow, before the Privy.

“Honestly, Brendon, you must know that I wouldn’t judge you for falling in love,” Gerard says.

“Lo—who—what do you mean, falling in love?” Brendon sputters, standing and pacing to the edge of the balcony, staring, unseeing, at the sunset.

Gerard laughs his endearingly ridiculous laugh. “And everyone at the house thought my affair with Frank was so scandalous. What will they say when they learn you’ve fallen for some smuggler.”

“Don’t go spinning ridiculous yarns about me, Gerard Way,” Brendon warns. “I’ve not fallen in love with anyone. Least of all some _smuggler_.”

Brendon doesn’t like the knowing smirk on Gerard’s face. Even more, he doesn’t like the way he wonders what Ryan and Spencer are doing at this moment, mid-morning in London City. 

*

Ryan doesn’t sleep for the two nights between their arrival and his presentation at Parliament. He spends every moment studying the court documents from his father’s hearing and working on his own speech.

Spencer tries to be supportive in the ways he knows how. He’s never had a head for politics, much to Jack’s dismay. Rather than attempting to keep up with what’s going on, he keeps everyone out of Ryan’s hair and makes sure he eats a couple of times a day, for which Ryan is stupidly grateful.

In the end, Ryan knows that the decision will have less to do with him than with all the bribery and behind-the-scenes machinations on Gerard’s part. No matter how much he prepares for this meeting, he can’t control the outcome.

It’s early morning on Monday when he finally gives up and goes to Spencer’s bedroom, climbing between the sheets. He’s done this a million times in search of comfort, but never before has Spencer searched out his mouth for a sleep-laced kiss.

Ryan tries to will his muscles to relax, but they only keep tensing back again. Spencer’s hand soothes up his arm, digging into his shoulder. “I’ve heard blow jobs do wonders for releasing tension,” he mutters sleepily.

It shocks a laugh out of Ryan. “I just might take you up on that, after,” he says. “Spence. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Spencer says immediately, like he always does, and things haven’t changed, except for how they have. Then Spencer draws him in for another, longer kiss, and Ryan’s heart is beating fast when they part. Spencer opens his eyes and he looks surprisingly alert and knowing.

“Good,” Ryan says, and nods. He kisses Spencer again, whispering _good_ against his lips.

He still doesn’t sleep, but he’d much rather be awake in bed with Spencer spooned up behind him, breath puffing on Ryan’s shoulder with every exhalation than alone in the study, accomplishing nothing except the formation of an ulcer.

It is a suitably grey, rainy morning in London City when Mikey takes them to the Halls of Parliament. Ryan feels like an impostor stepping into the building, aware of the gazes falling on him, the whispers of the Peers. His stomach knots and sours, and he’s glad he had nothing other than tea for breakfast; he isn’t sure he could keep anything else down. Though Gerard had his tailor from Sihnon come to make Ryan’s suit, Ryan can’t help but feel like a little boy dressing in his father’s clothes.

Thinking of Gerard and Sihnon makes Ryan think of Brendon, which does nothing to settle his nerves for the meeting. No doubt Brendon would be much better at this sort of thing, with his charisma and skills at manipulation.

The waiting room off the main chamber of the Judicial Committee is overly ornate and the chairs are stiff and uncomfortable. Ryan can’t stay still anyway. His palms are sweaty, which he’s always before thought wasn’t something that actually _happened_ to people.

Spencer catches him by the wrist as he paces and tugs him close. Mikey, thankfully, pays them no mind. Spencer keeps a hold on him until a knock comes at the door, and Mikey looks pointedly at Ryan.

For a moment, he’s paralysed and dumb, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Then Spencer shakes his hand until Ryan looks him in the eye. “Hey,” Spencer says, and Ryan knows he means _I love you_.

Ryan swallows and nods decisively. Straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, he follows Mikey into the chamber. 

*

It’s been almost twenty minutes since Ryan went before the Privy that the door from the hall opens to admit George Ross. Spencer sits up straight in his seat, forcing his face into a blank mask.

“Spencer,” George greets, his smile sharp and dangerous and reminiscent of Ryan’s when he’s angry. He doesn’t look any different from how Spencer remembers him from seven years ago.

“Prime Minister,” Spencer says, and nods his head. “For now.”

George doesn’t look impressed. “You think my son can take me on? This isn’t the two of you running off to play at being soldiers,” he spits.

“Yeah, because the war was so much fun. All the killing and watching your friends sick and wounded and dying, and practically starving on the Border worlds in the middle of winter.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before dragging my son into it,” George says.

Spencer can’t help the burst of laughter that startles from him. “If either of us drove him off to enlist, it wasn’t me,” he says, with honest amusement. “Though I will never be sorry for fighting for what I believed in, and neither will Ryan.”

George purses his lips and turns his back on Spencer, hands clasped behind his back. “You know, I think I envy your father. He didn’t have to live to see the day when his son returned to help destroy what he built.”

“The difference between my father and you is that he loved his son, no matter their differences,” Spencer says scornfully. “He might not have agreed with what I’d done, but he never would have sunk so low as to send _assassins_ after me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” George tells him pleasantly.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “And as for what you’ve built…I’m not sure that an empire that causes the death of thirty million of its citizens and covers the whole thing up without so much as blinking an eye is something to be proud of. Ryan couldn’t do more damage if he tried.”

“You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand,” George snaps, spinning on him. Spencer knows the look on his face, the one that scared Ryan as a child, made him come running to the Smith house. It doesn’t inspire nearly the same fear as it once did.

“I understand it perfectly,” Spencer says, rising. “You’re the same out there as you are with your private life—always having to control everyone, shape them into the docile puppets you want them to be, first by starting the war and then with Miranda. Just like you did raising Ryan. Only he saw you for what you are, and now so is everyone else in the Verse, and they’re going to turn against you like he did.”

George takes a step towards him, eyes narrowed. “I would watch your tone around me. I’m not out of office yet, boy.”

“You will be, soon enough.” They both turn to see Ryan in the doorway. Ryan steps between Spencer and his father. Mikey takes one look at them all and ducks into the hallway.

“And not just out of office,” Ryan continues. “You’re going to go to prison, and consider yourself lucky.”

“You’re as naïve as your friend,” George says. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Still the same pathetic little boy who ran off and joined the war to get back at me for not showing you enough affection.”

“I am what you have made me, father,” Ryan says serenely. “And you raised me to be your successor.”

“Do you think you convinced them of anything in there? They’ve all had their minds made up from the moment the broadcast hit the Cortex and it isn’t going to be changed by any impassioned speech by an idealistic child.”

Ryan arches a brow at Spencer that makes some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Interesting, then, that you tried to have me killed,” Ryan remarks.

George looks back and forth between the two of them. “Such strange notions the two of you have. Too bad they have no basis in reality. Anyway, it hardly matters. When the votes are passed, you have no hope for a supermajority, and once this has all blown over, no one will care what the two of you have to say.”

“We’ll see,” Ryan says agreeably. He tosses a look at Spencer that says _let’s get out of here_ , and Spencer agrees emphatically, grabbing his jacket from the chair and following him to the door without so much as a backwards glance.

Ryan pauses with his hand on the doorknob and turns to look over his shoulder. “Oh, and Dad, by the way? Go fuck yourself.”

They don’t wait to hear his response, Ryan closing the door silently behind them. As soon as George is out of sight, Ryan’s face changes from cool composure to panic bordering on terror. Mikey gives them a questioning look and Spencer just shakes his head, hooking his arm through Ryan’s and leading him down the hall.

“Mikey,” Ryan says, with a slight tremor in his determined tone. “We really have to win this.” 

*

Brendon spends most of the weekend contacting his former clients and replenishing his wardrobe. It’s strange, building a wardrobe for the business world rather than for the Companion life. Brendon had never thought of how his clothing defined him, but when he dresses Monday morning in his business suit he longs for something made of brocade, and jewels on his fingers.

The Sihnon office of Blue Sun is in the heart of Madrassa, mirrored façade gleaming in the sunlight. Brendon has passed the building many times throughout his adult life, but hasn’t stepped foot inside since before being sent to the training house.

Things are hectic within the building, with the recent allegations against Brendon’s father regarding his involvement on Miranda. He’s already facing civil and criminal charges, but despite that, the company is still flourishing, though now scrambling to make sure no other scandals are aired.

There is a meeting of the board of directors after lunch, and Brendon arrives early to speak to his father. The President’s office is at the top of the building, on the 80th floor, and has windows on all sides, looking out on the majesty of the Great City.

Boyd Urie is seated at his desk, having an argument with his computer screen when Brendon arrives. He jabs a finger at the mute button and shouts, “I said no one was to interrupt,” before doing a double take and staring at Brendon in disbelief. “Brendon. What are you doing here, dressed like that?”

“It’s good to see you, too, Father,” Brendon says, smiling wryly. “Do you have a moment?”

“I’m about to go into a meeting of the board of directors,” his father says. He reaches to unmute his call.

Brendon crosses to stand before his desk. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Brendon,” his father says, with exasperation, “not that I’m not delighted to see you, but it’s been over two years, and you can’t just stroll in here and expect me to drop everything for you.”

“Father, I’m merely trying to—”

“After the meeting,” his father interrupts, making a shooing motion to the door.

Brendon does not take any pleasure in creating a scene, but if that is how his father wishes to do things, Brendon will humour him. He has, over the past several days, wondered if he can go through with this. But after even so brief a meeting with his father, he knows there really is no other choice.

Brendon is familiar with a great many of the directors, having slept with most of them at one time or another. Those with whom he has been in contact over the past few days give him knowing looks and nods of approval when he enters the boardroom and takes his seat.

When Boyd enters, he doesn’t even make note of Brendon, going straight to the head of the table. He doesn’t look like a man concerned about his impending trials, and that more than anything gives Brendon the conviction to do what he must.

“Alright,” his father begins, as the directors fall silent, “the first order of business today—”

“I’m sorry,” Brendon says, rising to his feet. His father gives him an incredulous look and Brendon clears his throat and looks away from him. “However before we discuss anything else, there are a few issues I would like to present to the board.”

From the corner of his eye, Brendon can see Boyd cross his arms over his chest, and knows his father is attempting to contain is fury. “If there is something you would like to discuss, it can wait for later,” he says, tone measured.

Brendon inclines his head. “I’m sorry, but I believe, as majority share holder, that I am due the right to speak my piece before the board.” When he looks, his father’s lips are pressed together so tightly they’ve gone white. “And before we continue, I would like to get the formalities out of the way.”

“Specifically,” he continues, when his father remains silent, “the vote to officially remove President Urie from his position, as well as the appointment of a new Chief Executive Officer.”

“You can’t do this,” his father says, expression stony.

“I’m afraid I can,” Brendon tells him. “You really should have known better than to go public with the company, particularly with so many gruesome skeletons in the closet. If you had asked for my advice before doing so, you might not be in the mess you’re in now.

“Given the recent publicity surrounding Blue Sun’s involvement with the incident on the Miranda colony, I believe a new face in management will help the public come to trust us again, and I think my fellow board members would agree. It’s just business, father.”

The vote goes precisely how Brendon planned; even without the assistance of his clients on the board, he possesses a large enough portion of the shares to force the change himself. It looks better this way, though, a nearly unanimous agreement to fire Boyd, rather than his spoiled and ungrateful son doing the job alone.

Aside from the scene with his father, the meeting goes smoothly, with the board agreeing to disclose the classified information regarding the Paxilon Hydroclorate to the courts, and Brendon leaves feeling lighter than he has in a very long time.

There are still many issues to resolve. He is not so naïve as to think the Pax was the only secret his father was keeping. Blue Sun has spread too far out into the galaxy with too many distant, shadowy operations, and now it’s up to him to hunt them all down and right all the wrongs.

He will meet with his siblings once the situation with the Prime Minister has been settled; he remains hopeful that they will agree with him about the new direction of the company. Brendon would prefer to work with them, rather than against them.

In the elevator down, his father corners him, pressing the button to halt the car. “Do you honestly think that I’ll let you get away with this?” he demands.

“I’ve already gotten away with it,” Brendon says, fighting the urge to put his head in his hand. “I wish you would have allowed me to discuss it with you in private. I did not want to embarrass you in front of the board.”

“I’ll fight this,” Boyd whispers. “You have no idea what you’re doing. You think I’d let _you_ of all my children take my place.”

Brendon lets out a sigh, reaching past his father to restart the lift. “Yes, Father, I know very well your opinion of my worth. But do you know, I couldn’t have done this if it weren’t for you. If I hadn’t received the Companion training I did, I’d never had made the connections I did with my clients.”

He shrugs, unable to keep the smugness from his voice when he adds, “I expect that wasn’t exactly the result you had in mind, when you sent me away.”

Boyd smacks him, the back of his hand catching Brendon across the cheek hard enough to split his lip. The pain is shockingly hot and dull, and Brendon presses his fingers to where it throbs, wiping the blood away, hoping his expression conveys how deeply unimpressed he is.

“If you touch me again, I’ll break your wrist,” he says, very calmly.

His father takes a threatening step forward and the lift opens on the ground floor. Brendon brushes past into the lobby, his father fast on his heels. He grabs Brendon’s arm in a tight grip, jerking him back towards the empty offices behind the bank of elevators. Brendon waits until they are out of sight to take his father’s wrist and twist, freeing himself and forcing Boyd’s fist back at a sharp angle.

“They taught us how to protect ourselves from piece of _gǒushǐ hùndàn_ at the training house, too,” Brendon hisses. He releases his father and steps back. He takes a calming breath and wishes he had on his own clothing, to draw around him protectively.

“I’m sorry that it had to come to this. I honestly wish things were different,” Brendon says. He side steps around his father and heads for the doors. His steps are even; he refuses to hurry.

He doesn’t realise he’s shaking until he’s outside, Frank’s limousine waiting at the curb. Gerard is iside and envelopes him in a warm hug once the driver has closed the door behind him.

“I’m alright,” Brendon says, and is surprised that he means it.

“The Guild would have his head, if they saw your face right now,” Gerard tsks, gently touching at Brendon’s swollen mouth.

Brendon laughs and winces at the pressure of Gerard’s fingers. “I think a black mark in the registry is the last of my father’s concerns, right now. And the Guild isn’t going to be very happy with me when I resign next week, anyway.”

“Which has absolutely nothing to do with the reason you’re not _sleeping_ with any of the clients you’re meeting this week,” Gerard says, with an entirely too knowing smirk.

“It has to do with the fact that Guild law forbids me from being President of Blue Sun,” Brendon tells him firmly. In fact, it has a great deal to do with the meeting he hopes to arrange after all this business with Parliament and Blue Sun is over. He will never be ashamed by what he has done in his role as a Companion, but as his time with the Guild draws to an end, for the first time in his life, Brendon has been able to consider what he wants for himself. And what he wants might be fantastic and ridiculous, and downright terrifying. It doesn’t stop him from hoping for it. For wanting _them_.

“Uh huh…” Gerard taps a thoughtful finger against his pursed lips, as though he can read Brendon’s thoughts. Then he lets it drop, for now. “Mikey has asked you to come to dinner on Londinium, on Thursday. He wants for the younger Mister Ross to meet you.”

Brendon can’t help but let his shock show on his face, and Gerard is astute, interest piqued at once. “Is that—really necessary, before the vote?” Brendon stutters. He hasn’t had time to consider precisely what he will say, and Spencer and Ryan are no doubt still angry with him.

“Oh, now I think it is,” Gerard says gleefully.

Brendon’s stomach seizes in anticipation. New public persona be damned, he needs his own clothing for _this_ meeting. 

*

The only thing Ryan looks forward to for the entire week following his meeting with the Privy is bedtime with Spencer. The rest of his time is spent in meeting after meeting with various of the Peers and other government officials, explaining where he’s been the past seven years and why he is not only ready, but qualified to take his father’s position. 

It’s disconcerting, the way that many of the Lords and Ladies he meets already seem to know about him. It’s as if they’ve already made up their minds one way or another and just want to see him, or something. He supposes it is probably because of Gerard’s people, working to garner the necessary votes for a supermajority, but it still makes Ryan uncomfortable.

In the evenings there are dinners at the Way Manor. Alicia has many friends among the Londinium elite; though they have no vote at Parliament, they do have influence over some of the Peers, and they are eager to meet with Ryan as well.

Ryan would prefer to dine in the casual dining hall with the crew of the _Nevada_. He only sees them occasionally throughout the week, only in passing, as they roam the grounds. Patrick has made himself at home in the library; Jon, Vicky, and Zack spend their afternoons exploring the hidden treasures of the gardens and forest.

Pete hangs about Alicia and Mikey as they go about their daily work, learning all he can. Perhaps the thing that brings Ryan the most pleasure about this whole affair is the fact that if he is appointed, he can give Pete what he lost fighting as an Independent in the war. Once Ryan is in office, his first step will be to grant full citizenship to all Independents, and his second will be to appoint Pete to office, where he was so obviously born to be.

Spencer is a quiet and reassuring presence throughout the week, always at Ryan’s side. There is no question where anyone is concerned that Spencer will be appointed to the Privy if Ryan is appointed to Prime Minister. Spencer likes to protest that he isn’t skilled in politics, which might be true, but he is honest and fearless, and Ryan can trust him implicitly to carry out his job honourably, which matters far more than cunning.

In the evenings, when they retire, Spencer is still there, but different, out of sight of the others, all devious grins and searching hands. Ryan almost doesn’t miss Brendon then, when they’re rolling in their sheets. Maybe it’s easier with just the two of them—there’s no question of how to choreograph their movements—but Ryan can’t help but wonder how it might be with a third set of lips, or hands.

Never could Ryan have dreamed it would be as easy as it is to make this transition from best friends to lovers. Even with the tension and jealousy between them Ryan has never been more comfortable with anyone else—before meeting Brendon—than with Spencer. Without it, Ryan is confident in a way he’s never been, like he might actually win this gorram election.

Ryan had no idea things would move so quickly, once he arrived, but by Thursday morning the House of Lords is already talking about passing down judgement on the impeachment. He still keeps expecting to wake up stranded on the space station to find out this has all been some crazy dream brought on by Brendon’s sedative.

Mikey announces yet another grand dinner for Gerard and his connections that have been campaigning for Ryan among the Peers. Ryan is incredibly grateful, he is, but he’s dying for a casual evening with his friends. He has a sinking feeling that it won’t be until after the election that such an opportunity will be afforded him, and that even then it will be a rarity.

“Come on,” Spencer says with a smile, when they’re dressing for dinner. “It’ll be nice to see Gerard again.”

“Yes,” Ryan concedes. He’s just a bit concerned with being surrounded by Gerard’s friends, most of them likely to be Companions. Before Brendon, Ryan didn’t really have an opinion about them one way or another, but now he would rather not have to deal with them, until some more time has passed.

Spencer looks really good in his tuxedo, and Ryan would rather stay in his room, but Mikey knocks on the door, calling them out. Ryan lets out a sigh and resigns himself to the evening, and goes to answer.

“Most of the guests will be arriving within the hour, but Gee’s just gotten here, and there’s someone I really want the two of you to meet,” Mikey tells them, as he leads them to the first floor lounge.

Gerard rises to greet them when they enter, giving them both warm hugs, and introduces his lover, Frank, who shakes their hands with honest interest. Their guest is at the window, dressed in a bold red choli embroidered in gold, tied at the neck and midriff, leaving his back and waistline bare. Even without seeing his face, Ryan knows it’s Brendon.

“This is Brendon Urie, President of Blue Sun,” Mikey introduces and Ryan feels his own jaw drop at the same moment Spencer sucks in a shocked breath. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, Ryan knew that the youngest Urie was a Companion, but it hadn’t ever seemed relevant. Now Ryan can’t believe he missed it.

“Spencer,” Brendon greets, turning. “Ryan.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Spencer demands, striding forward. Ryan sees the way Brendon sways towards him, the way Spencer seems to strain against reaching out.

“I would think that should be obvious,” Brendon murmurs, blasé.

Spencer grabs him by the arm and gives him a shake. “Don’t you know what you put at risk?” he demands, jerking his head towards Ryan. “Don’t you know who he _is_?”

Brendon looks up at Spencer with cold eyes, but Ryan notices the tremor in his voice when he speaks. “He’s no one, unless I get him elected,” he whispers, pulling his arm free. “My presence is as necessary as his own.”

“You could have _told_ us,” Spencer says, voice rough. He looks like he wants to grab Brendon again. “We would have—”

“Told you,” Brendon echoes, “the way you told me who you were?”

“Spence.” Ryan steps forward to lay a hand on his arm. He is distantly aware of Gerard leading Mikey and Frank from the room.

“If there is one thing I cannot abide, it’s hypocrisy,” Brendon says. “I don’t see how you can recognise the need for your own anonymity and deny me mine.”

“You just ran off with William,” Spencer says, apropos nothing. “You didn’t bother to explain anything, just went off to have sex with him and Gabe.”

“It’s my _job_ ,” Brendon nearly shouts.

Spencer snorts and turns away, running a hand through his hair.

Ryan doesn’t know what to say, caught between confusion and understanding. “Urie,” he says. “That’s what Marshall was going to say. Why you stopped him.”

“I’m not proud of what my family did, and I didn’t relish lying to you, but I’m sure you can understand my urgency, now.” Brendon still won’t meet his gaze, staring instead at the rug beneath his feet.

Ryan’s been done with anger for days, waiting impatiently for all this political nonsense to be over so that he could try to find Brendon, and now here he is, and Ryan can’t find the words he wants.

So he acts instead, stepping forward and closing the space between them. Hand wrapping around Brendon’s neck, Ryan pulls him close and bends his head to meet Brendon’s lips. Brendon lets out a startled sound. He stumbles into Ryan. His hands catch on Ryan’s chest and his fingers clench in the fabric of Ryan’s shirt. Brendon doesn’t kiss like someone who has been trained to—he responds only hesitantly, mouth unsure.

Kissing Brendon is unlike kissing Spencer, with all his warmth and familiarity. Brendon is a puzzle, and Ryan gets the impression it will take a long time to figure him out.

He slicks his tongue along the seam of Brendon’s lips and Brendon parts for him with a soft, breathy sound. His every movement is in reaction to Ryan’s, which isn’t what Ryan would have expected from a Companion. It is untrained. Ryan likes that.

When they part, Brendon looks up at him with hooded eyes. He licks his lips, mouth red and swollen, and it takes all of Ryan’s willpower not to walk him back against the wall.

Over Brendon’s shoulder, Spencer is watching them. He reaches for Brendon, brushes his fingers along Brendon’s spine and Brendon arches forward into Ryan. Spencer’s hands slide down Brendon’s waist to rest on his hips over the fabric of his gauzy pants.

“You didn’t really give me a chance,” Brendon says. He lays his head back on Spencer’s shoulder and letting it lull to the side, meets his gaze. “I came to see you, and you’d already taken the _Cobra_ …” He gasps softly when Spencer nuzzles at his neck then Brendon rolls his hips in a slow grind, up against Ryan’s groin and back against Spencer’s. “I’m not sorry,” he whispers. “But I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

“Brendon,” Spencer rumbles, and turns him around. “You should really just stop talking.” He leans in, nose brushing Brendon’s. Ryan realises he’s holding his breath, waiting for them to kiss, hungry to see it.

The door opens and Brendon jerks away when Gerard pokes his head inside. He grins at them broadly and says, tone not the slightest bit apologetic, “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but dinner is ready to be served.” 

*

There aren’t as many guests as Spencer was lead to believe. In fact, besides Brendon and Marshall, there is only one other Companion, a stunning blonde called Cassie whose smile is tranquil and enticing at once. Spencer is surprised to see the crew of the _Nevada_ present as well. Jon is at Cassie’s side, telling her a story in a low murmur, while Patrick and Marshall play catch up, and Gerard and Pete make fast friends.

Brendon takes the seat to Gerard’s left, looking everywhere but at Spencer or Ryan as the servants bring in the first course.

Vicky gives Brendon a slightly apologetic smile, which Spencer takes to mean that she and the others have been filled in on who Brendon is. “Gabe wasn’t too angry with me for taking his ship, was he?”

“More annoyed I interrupted his sleep over it,” Brendon assures her. “Though I imagine you’ll hear it from him yourself, soon enough. He and William will be arriving in Londinium next week.”

“So you’re really a Urie?” Pete asks him, elbows on the table, chin in palm.

“Will it change your perception of me favourably if it’s true?” Brendon counters.

Pete gives him a sharp grin. “You know, I like your sass,” he says, wagging a finger at him. “I heard there was some big _xiā shuō bā dào_ going on at your family’s company.”

Spencer vaguely recalls hearing mention of it in a news feed on Tuesday, but he’s been so wrapped up in Ryan and the hearings at Parliament that he didn’t pay any attention.

Brendon nods his agreement. “I will be officially announcing my takeover at a press conference on Monday.”

“Yes,” Gerard says, looking first at Ryan and then at Spencer. “Right after resigning from the Guild.” Ryan squeezes Spencer’s knee under the table and darts him a quick smile.

“Naturally,” Brendon says shortly. He takes a sip of his water and fidgets with his place setting.

“But you’ll be settling on Sihnon?” Cassie asks.

Brendon’s lips twitch as if in annoyance and Gerard answers, “At the main office here in London City. Kara will be running the Shinon offices.”

“You know, I think that’s enough boring talk about me,” Brendon says, twirling his spoon in his soup. “We came to discuss Ryan’s situation.”

Spencer could deal with knowing more about Brendon settling on Londinium, and especially about him not being a Companion any more, but it can wait until they don’t have an audience.

“Yeah,” Mikey agrees, with a lingering look at his brother. “We have three hundred and eighty-two votes guaranteed, mostly from Peers on the Rim and Border.”

“I have another seventy-nine for you,” Cassie says. “And between Greta and Keltie there are three dozen more.”

Spencer does some quick math, noting that puts them two hundred twenty-three votes behind the supermajority. “Singer and Sheydra bring another twenty-nine,” Gerard says.

Mikey and Gerard both look to Brendon who is studying his plate. “I have two-hundred and sixteen.”

Objectively, Spencer knows he has no reason to be surprised. Brendon must be close to his own age, and if he began taking lovers when he was eighteen, then he must have slept with hundreds of men and women. All the same, hearing such a large number thrown out so casually, Spencer can’t stop the instant spark of jealousy. Or the urge to lay his own claim.

As if he can read Spencer’s mind, Brendon looks at him from beneath his lashes. There is no coyness about it, only something that Spencer reads as fear and anticipation. Ryan shifts lower in his seat, leg brushing Spencer’s as he extends it, and Brendon’s eyes widen just slightly. From the corner of his eye, Spencer can see the mischievous look on Ryan’s face, lip caught between his teeth.

“But that’s more than you need,” Marshall says eagerly, oblivious to what is going on beside him. “Right?”

Brendon clears his throat and tears his gaze away from Spencer’s. “Nothing is certain until tomorrow’s election,” he says. “But I believe between the firm votes I have, and from the information I’ve learned through my fellow board members at Blue Sun, we will take it by a landslide.”

“I would think the Peers involved in Blue Sun would want to avoid having Ryan in office,” Marshall says, frowning.

“At the moment, the only options are impeachment and war, and all those with any connection at all to the scandal hope that, by throwing their support behind Ryan, all the blame will fall on Minister Ross,” Brendon explains.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t care for politics, you seem to get a lot,” Pete teases.

Brendon rolls his eyes. “I refuse to apologise for my charade,” he says in exasperation. “Thanks to it, we are all here now, and tomorrow Minister Ross will be impeached.”

“Yes,” Mikey says, “though a lot of those votes will come with certain expectations.”

“They can shove those expectations up their _pìgu_ ,” Ryan says flatly.

“Oh man,” Vicky says, “I’m totally gonna get to cut some _biǎo zi_ , aren’t I?”

Spencer gives her an unsettled look. “Vicky, it disturbs me sometimes, how much pleasure you take in your work.”

“Yeah, well, as long as it keeps Ryan from getting dead, I’m all about it,” Zack says. “Plus, you can’t say it isn’t hot.” Vicky gives him a pleased look, which from her amounts to a kiss on the cheek.

“There are going to be bribes and blackmail attempts,” Mikey says, tone bland. “A bodyguard or seven wouldn’t be looked at amiss.”

“Thanks for the reassurance, Mikes,” Ryan tells him and Mikey lifts a single shoulder in a shrug.

“It’s shiny,” Vicky says with a wave of her hand, “I know some people. We’ll take care of you.”

“Somehow,” Ryan drawls, “I’m not entirely reassured.” His leg shifts, hip pressing against Spencer’s thigh, and Brendon chokes on his water.

The servants come in to clear the first course, and Spencer suddenly realises this is going to be a very long dinner. He settles in, forcing himself to at least lend half and ear as Cassie, Pete, and Mikey begin discussing a minor uprising on Fury.

They retire to the lounge after dinner for brandy and Pete challenges Brendon to a rematch at cards. Ryan looks ready to start a fight over it, but lets Frank rope him into a game of Plums, instead.

From his place on the sofa talking to Gerard and Mikey, Spencer can watch them both, and the looks Brendon keeps sneaking at him and Ryan. One by one Jon, Zack, and Vicky head to their rooms for the evening, but despite many a significant look from Patrick, Pete is determined to win against Brendon, no matter the cost to his sex life.

Mikey seems oblivious to the tension between Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon, telling Spencer very earnestly about unicorn sightings on Highgate. Gerard, on the other hand, takes obvious delight in Brendon’s discomfort.

When Brendon rises and goes to the sideboard to refill his glass, Spencer follows, stepping up close behind him. Brendon stiffens when Spencer presses against his back. His hand clenches around the decanter, knuckles going white.

Spencer bends his neck to murmur in his ear. “It’s late. You must have travelled all day to get here.”

Brendon nods, letting out a shaky breath. “Yes,” he agrees, “I am very tired.”

Ryan’s gaze flicks over to them and Spencer tilts his chin towards the door. Ryan clears his throat and lays his cards face down on the table. “I think I’m done for the night,” he says. He gets to his feet and Spencer marks the knowing grin Gerard aims at them.

“Maybe,” Spencer says, running his hand down Brendon’s arm. He’s entranced by the bare skin that rises with goosebumps under his touch, gently circles his fingers around Brendon’s wrist. “You should think about heading to bed.”

Brendon nods again, haltingly. “Yes,” he whispers, and lets Spencer draw him from the sideboard and towards the door. 

*

Ryan is seated on the bed when they enter, in nothing but his slacks. He’s even skinnier than Brendon had imagined, and Brendon is surprised by how much he wants to touch. His heart, which has already been racing, steps up another notch.

Spencer slides an arm around his waist and Brendon goes up on his toes to meet Spencer’s lips. Spencer’s kiss is rough with desperation, and Brendon is shocked by how quickly his body responds, the way his hips press against Spencer’s in search of contact. He jumps when Ryan’s hand falls against the bare skin of his back, a mirror of their position earlier. But Ryan’s fingers slip between the fabric of his choli and skin and he tugs on the lace.

Brendon pulls away and they both move away to let him take a step back. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to catch his breath. “I’m sorry. I just—I’ve never done this.”

Ryan arches a brow. He steps closer, laying a hand on Brendon’s stomach and sliding under the loosened fabric of his top. “I find that difficult to believe.”

Brendon refuses to blush. He _wants_ this. “I just mean…” He takes a deep breath as Spencer begins to unbutton his shirt. “I’ve never done it for pleasure.”

Ryan eyes narrow and Spencer freezes in the act of shrugging off his shirt, face clouding with anger. “You never enjoyed it?” Spencer asks, voice low with anger. 

Brendon is speechless for a long moment, staring at the two of them together. He’s had plenty of physically attractive lovers, but being with them has never made Brendon’s body heat and his breath catch like this. And only from seeing the two of them bare-chested, Spencer with his strong shoulders and curvy hips, and Ryan with skin stretched thin over bones. 

“Brendon,” Ryan says. His hand draws away from Brendon’s skin and his brows furrow in concern. 

“No,” Brendon says. “I mean, yes. Of course it was enjoyable. What I mean to say…”

He reaches out to brush his fingers over Ryan’s stomach and curls his fingers in his waistband, giving a tug. He’s tired of being always reactive to them, especially now that he’s made up his mind. Ryan stumbles against him, hands falling on Brendon’s shoulders, and he smiles hesitantly. Brendon kisses his collarbone, the pulse point of his neck. He parts his lips, scraping his teeth against skin until Ryan’s breath catches. 

“I’ve never done this for no other reason than because I want to,” he says. 

Spencer wraps his arms around Brendon from behind, bare skin warm on Brendon’s. He’s hard, pressed against Brendon’s ass. Brendon has never wanted someone to fuck him before, and now it’s all he can think about.

“This isn’t about you being a Companion,” Spencer says. He peppers kisses up Brendon’s shoulder stopping when he reaches the lace at Brendon’s neck and unties it. “We want you.”

Brendon nods, turning his head to catch Spencer’s mouth in a kiss. His hands fumble blindly at Ryan’s pants. Brendon has never been anything less than graceful and composed in the bedroom, but his skin feels tight and hot, and he wants this too much to be smooth about it.

Ryan helps him, shoving his slacks and underwear down. His hipbones are sharp under Brendon’s palms. Brendon wants to go down on his knees, to lick and suck everywhere his hands touch. 

He catches Spencer’s lip between his teeth and pulls away. He delights in Spencer’s gasp, the way his hips buck. Brendon presses his ass back against him for a teasing second and steps away, pushing Ryan back too. 

Their eyes track him as he moves towards the bed. His choli, loosened, slides away from his chest to the floor and he lets the sari fabric drop with it. Left only in his pants, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls himself up. 

Spencer moves first, almost tripping in his haste to strip out of his pants. He falls over Brendon on the bed and kisses him with that same rough urgency that makes Brendon want to just touch him everywhere with no finesse at all, until they both come. 

Then Ryan is sinking down beside them, mouth on Brendon’s throat. Brendon lifts his hips and reaches between them to wriggle free of his pants and kick them aside. He rolls Spencer beneath him, straddles his lap and leans over to kiss Ryan properly, hungrily. 

Brendon was taught not to let his passions get the better of him, but neither of them seems to mind. Ryan responds with equal fervour, and Spencer’s hands frame his hips as he grinds his cock against Brendon’s ass. Brendon breaks away with a groan, hands braced on Spencer’s chest, and he rocks down against him. He can almost feel Spencer inside of him already and he’s desperate for it, breath coming in shallow gasps. 

Ryan lies down at Spencer’s side and Brendon just watches as they kiss. It’s different from the first time, when they were hesitant. Now there’s an easiness between them, and Brendon wants to be a part of it. He leans in to kiss Ryan’s jaw, to suck bruises over Spencer’s chest. 

“I want both of you,” he whispers against Ryan’s throat and sinks his teeth in. Clients never liked being marked, but Ryan and Spencer only answer by rolling him beneath them and returning the favour. 

Brendon closes his eyes, head tossed back against the mattress. It’s almost too much, all the sensation. He wasn’t lying when he said that he usually enjoyed sex with his clients, but he’s never been the focus. His pleasure has always been…secondary. 

Spencer gets on his knees over him and crawls down the bed. He ducks his head, breathing hotly over Brendon’s cock before pressing his tongue firmly to the head. Brendon’s back arches away from the bed and he mumbles, “Sorry, sorry,” patting at Spencer’s hair. 

Spencer grins at him and twirls his tongue around Brendon’s cock. “It’s _really_ okay,” he says, and closes his mouth around Brendon, sucking. And Brendon—he’s given more blow jobs than he could ever hope to keep count of, but he’s only been on the receiving end a handful of times, and it’s never felt like this.

He can’t make his body listen to him, keeps thrusting up and Spencer _lets_ him, takes it and moans around Brendon like he _enjoys_ it. “Stop thinking about it,” Ryan whispers, and tugs Brendon’s earlobe between his teeth. “Just let us.” 

Brendon swallows, throat dry from panting, and nods his agreement. Ryan presses a quick kiss to his mouth and rolls away towards the nightstand. He comes back with a jar of lube. Brendon’s hips buck up. His fingers tighten in Spencer’s hair and he can’t make them loosen. 

Ryan’s smile is knowing and full of promise as he unscrews the lid and dips his fingers in the viscous liquid inside. Brendon spreads his legs and plants his heels on the bed in anticipation. Ryan kisses him again, slowly, and Brendon grabs his wrist impatiently, bringing it between his thighs.

Ryan laughs into his mouth, but he doesn’t tease, probing until he finds the tight ring of muscles and pushing two slick fingers inside. Brendon’s thought about Ryan’s hands, his long, slender fingers, when he has allowed himself to fantasise. Now they’re spreading him open and it’s too much, with Spencer’s mouth. He gives a sharp tug to Spencer’s hair and Spencer lets him go with a slick, wet sound. 

“I’m close,” Brendon whines, surprised at the sound of his own voice. He pulls at Spencer’s hair again until Spencer obliges him, rising up over him. Ryan works a third finger inside and crooks them, sending pleasure sparking down Brendon’s spine. “I don’t want to come yet.” 

“What do you want?” Spencer asks. His voice is lower than usual, coarse, and Brendon’s cock jumps at the thought that it’s because of him. Spencer wraps a hand around him loosely. He kisses Brendon’s throat, noses aside his hair and licks at the shell of his ear. 

Ryan’s fingers find his prostate, circling gently, teasingly, and Brendon tries to pull away. “I’m usually the one asking that question,” he manages. 

“How’s it feel to be on the other side?” Ryan murmurs. 

Brendon tries to give him a sardonic smirk, but Ryan twists his fingers deeper and he just moans. “I think it’s going to take some getting used to,” he says. He twists out from under them and Ryan slips his fingers free. 

Ryan and Spencer sit back with their shoulders brushing and fingers tangled casually over the sheets. He’s joined couples in their marriage bed before, he’s been part of foursomes and even a few fivesomes, but he’s never felt like he was part of one as anything other than an instrument. 

Even without touching Spencer and Ryan, Brendon feels a part of this. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, and he can’t stop his grin. He reaches out his hand. “Will you two come fuck me?” 

They both spring into motion. Brendon opens his legs in welcoming and leans back on the pillows. His hand scrambles blindly over the sheets for the jar of lubricant as Ryan settles between his thighs. Brendon reaches between them to slick the lube over Ryan’s cock. He can’t take his eyes off Ryan’s face, the way he bites his lip when Brendon squeezes him, the way his eyes screw shut tightly, like he can barely control himself. 

Then Ryan’s lining up and pushing in and Brendon can’t stop the sound that tears from him, raw and desperate. Ryan slowly bottoms out, face buried in Brendon’s neck. He lets out a harsh breath and flexes his hips, pushing deeper and Brendon grabs at his shoulders. His fingers slip down Ryan’s back and dig in at the curve of his ass. 

Brendon wants him to move, and realises after a second that he can ask for that. He hooks a leg around Ryan’s thigh and rocks back and up again. His fingers brush through the hair at the nape of Ryan’s neck. “Move, Ryan, come on,” he urges, and Ryan lifts his head, pinning Brendon with his gaze. His eyes are dark with lust and he kisses Brendon almost violently, startling a gasp from Brendon’s throat. 

Ryan moves, slowly at first, long, deep thrusts that make Brendon’s eyes roll back in his head. His mouth trails from Brendon’s along his jaw and down his throat, his teeth stinging. 

Spencer slides a hand between them, thumb flicking idly at Brendon’s nipple, and he kisses Brendon deeply, swallowing the sounds he makes. His hand skates lower, making Brendon’s stomach quiver, and teases over Brendon’s cock before going even lower, past Brendon’s balls, to where Ryan’s thrusting inside. The touch makes Brendon’s hips jerk and Ryan lets out a low sound, biting down hard on Brendon’s shoulder. 

It’s like Spencer flipped a switch; Ryan grabs Brendon’s hips in a tight grip and fucks him harder. The bed frame shakes, and normally Brendon would be embarrassed to think that someone might hear this. For a Companion, lovemaking is part of a larger, sacred ritual, and it is meant to be kept private. Right now he can’t think of anything beyond what Spencer and Ryan are doing to him. 

Brendon reaches out for Spencer, hand rubbing over his thigh before finding his cock and wrapping his fist around it. Spencer moves to return the favour and Brendon shakes his head. “Not yet,” he whispers against Spencer’s mouth. “I want you first.” 

“Fuck,” Ryan moans. He presses his lips against Brendon’s forehead, then to Spencer’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, the place where Brendon’s lips meet Spencer’s. “Fuck, Brendon,” he says again, with a brutal snap of his hips that makes Brendon bite down on Spencer’s lip. 

Brendon pulls away, panting, and runs his hand down Ryan’s cheek, catching him under the chin and leading him into a brief kiss. “You’re so…” Ryan trails off and tosses his head back, tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief. 

“Come for me,” Brendon murmurs. He kneads the soft skin at the swell of Ryan’s ass, urging him deeper. Ryan answers with another forceful thrust, and another, and Brendon has to slow his breathing to keep from coming himself. Control tenuous, he hooks his ankles around Ryan’s waist and meets him thrust for thrust, until Ryan’s arms give out and he buries himself deep one last time, groaning through clenched teeth as he comes. 

Brendon rubs Ryan’s back, still moving his own hips, unable to stop himself. Ryan makes a faint noise between pleasure and discomfort and raises his head. “Sorry,” Brendon whimpers. “I’m sorry, I just—” 

Ryan cuts him off with a kiss as he pulls out. Brendon moans at the loss, reaching between his legs to finger himself delicately. He’s tender and a little sore, and feels way too empty. Ryan’s smiling when he breaks the kiss. “I think it’s your turn, Spence,” he says. 

*

Spencer wakes with Ryan plastered against his back and Brendon wrapped around him from the front. Though he may have worried about the logistics before, he’s starting to think that adapting to two lovers as opposed to one isn’t going to be as difficult as he’d imagined. 

He’s hard, but not insistently so. He can wait for them to wake. It’s still a novel sight, all of Brendon’s golden skin bared for Spencer to see and touch. He brushes his hand up Brendon’s waist, around his back, over his shoulder.

The skin is smooth and flawless under his touch, and Spencer can’t stop touching, tracing his nails against the flesh of Brendon’s neck, letting the pad of his finger just skim down his arm. 

Brendon makes a soft sound in his sleep and shifts closer. His arms tighten and he murmurs, “Spence?” His eyes flutter open and he smiles sleepily before closing them again. 

“How did you know it was me?” Spencer whispers. 

Brendon’s smile widens. “Mmm. You touch me so delicately,” he says. He stretches, arching his body into Spencer’s enticingly. His body stiffens halfway through and he opens his eyes again, more alert. He looks around the room as if startled. 

“What is it?” Spencer asks. He bends his head to kiss open mouthed against one of the dark purple bites on Brendon’s neck. 

“ _Xūyú_ ,” Brendon says. 

Spencer feels Ryan stirring, reaching past Spencer to take Brendon’s hand. “No,” Ryan says. “Not anymore. Stay with us.” 

“I want to,” Brendon says, though his words come out choked. 

“Then do it,” Spencer says. He slips a hand under Brendon’s thigh, hiking it up over his own hip. Brendon’s still sticky wet from earlier, and it’s so easy for Spencer to push inside. Brendon lets out a shaky breath, slowly relaxing against him. 

“I’m _here_ ,” Brendon says, and Spencer knows that’s what matters. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” Ryan says, voice hoarse. His own erection is pressed against Spencer’s back. 

“Not—oh—planning on it,” Brendon hisses. He pushes Spencer onto his back and pins his shoulders to the bed with a firm grip. 

Ryan lines up beside them, rubbing his cock against Spencer’s hip. Spencer takes him in hand, but it’s difficult to keep up any sort of pace when Brendon rolls his hips, taking Spencer deeper. 

Brendon’s hand slides over his stomach, wrapping his fist around his own cock and jerking in time with the lazy, rocking motion of his hips. Spencer can’t tear his eyes away from the sight, the way Brendon’s thighs flex, how his chest labours with his breath, his cock slick with precome, fucking into his fist. From Ryan’s low, hungry moan, Spencer can guess he’s fixated on the same thing.

When Brendon comes, it almost seems like a surprise to him, the way he folds in on himself, mouth falling open on a silent moan. He braces his hands on Spencer’s chest and rocks harder through it and Spencer does his best to thrust up harder, deeper, following Brendon over the edge.

Brendon sprawls over Spencer’s chest, drawing shaky breaths. He holds his soiled hand away from Spencer, like it’s something to be ashamed of, or some _fèi huà_ , and Spencer just doesn’t hold with that. He takes Brendon by the wrist, lifting his hand to Spencer’s lips. Brendon lifts his head to watch with heavy lidded eyes as Spencer sucks Brendon’s fingers into his mouth, and licks over his palm. 

Ryan makes a noise halfway between arousal and annoyance beside them. “Someone had seriously better suck my cock,” he says. 

Brendon arches a brow at Spencer before turning to Ryan. “Just one someone?” he asks. 

*

Brendon dresses in an understated black cheongsam with a delicate phoenix picked out in shimmering thread. The high collar does an excellent job of hiding the marks from their lovemaking. Gerard has provided Ryan with a special suit for today’s hearing, which performs a similar job. Brendon dabs concealer to the one mark that falls above Ryan’s collar, at the corner of his jaw. 

Spencer, however, apparently has no shame, leaving the top few buttons of his shirt undone to expose a veritable necklace of bruises. “You’re not going to the hearing like that,” Ryan tells him blandly. 

Spencer just shrugs and goes off to breakfast that way. They’re late to the table, which is obvious enough without Spencer’s display, and of course Pete, Vicky, and Jon have to be obnoxious _hùndàn_ about it, making snide comments all throughout the meal and snickering behind their glasses. 

“Not even in office and you’re already going to start a scandal,” Pete laughs. 

Ryan decides to ignore him and try to copy the way Brendon goes about eating his egg in a very dignified manner. Now, outside of the bedroom, his stomach is twisting up with anxiety. Before the morning is out, the House of Lords will hold their vote. Even with the number of votes they’ve predicted, nothing is certain. Ryan doesn’t want to consider what will happen if his father wins or the war that will follow, most likely worse than the War of Unification. 

Brendon rides over in the same limousine as Ryan and Spencer. Spencer has, thankfully, done up his shirt and donned his jacket, and he looks cool and intimidating. He sits on Ryan’s left and Brendon on Ryan’s right, and they both hold his hand, neither commenting on the tightness of his grip. 

When they draw near to the Halls of Parliament, Ryan can’t help the way his pulse quickens along with his breath. Spencer just holds on tighter, and as ever before Ryan draws his strength from him. If Spencer can be strong for Ryan, then Ryan can be strong for everyone else. 

Then Brendon leans in close and lays his head on Ryan’s shoulder. “I won’t let you fail,” Brendon assures him, and no matter what mistruths Brendon spoke in the past, Ryan believes him. 

They part before stepping out of the limousine, but Spencer and Brendon stay close at his sides. Ryan squares his shoulders, striding to meet Mikey at the entrance to Parliament. 

Even when he wins, there are so many other hurdles to overcome. His appointment isn’t an easy fix. The wounds left by Unification have been festering for nearly a decade, and now with Mirada they’ve been split open again. He’s young for a Prime Minister, and he knows there are members of Parliament who will seize on that to try and gain sway over him. Yet even knowing all of that, with Spencer and Brendon at his side, it doesn’t seem all that daunting. 

*

Epilogue

_This morning, a little over a month since Prime Minister George Ross’ impeachment by a stunning nine-hundred and eighty-three votes in the House of Lords, Parliament voted to convict the ex-Minister on criminal charges for his involvement in the deaths of the colonists on Miranda as well as in the cover-up that followed._

_Later this afternoon, his son, George Ryan Ross the Third, fashioned Lord Ryan Ross, was appointed to the office of Prime Minister. In his speech, Minister Ross caused waves by announcing his intention to reinstate full citizenship to all those veterans who fought with the Independents in the Unification war. Within hours, opinion polls showed Minister Ross’ popularity far above that of his father, throughout the entirety of his time in office._

_His politics aren’t the only thing causing a sensation, though. Following the inauguration ceremony, Minister Ross announced his engagement to ex-Companion and current President of Blue Sun Corporation. The two have appeared together several times in public since ex-Minister Ross’ impeachment, and rumours began circulating soon after. Such a powerful union is no doubt—_

Brendon turns off the television screen and throws the remote control somewhere off the foot of their bed. “I think that’s enough politics for the day,” he says sleepily. He stretches a leg and arm over Ryan’s body. 

“You don’t want to hear more about your epic, scandalous romance?” Spencer teases, dropping kisses at the top of Brendon’s spine, one of his most sensitive spots. Brendon squirms, letting out a sigh of pleasure. 

“Oh, just wait until they find out about you, Spencer Smith,” Ryan says, too gleefully for someone who will receive the brunt of the criticism over their ménage à trois. Someday in the distant, distant future. 

“So, Prime Minister,” Brendon purrs, sitting up to straddle Ryan’s hips, “how does it feel to be the most powerful man in the entire Verse?”

Ryan smiles. “If it’s true, it’s only thanks to you two,” answers, arching up to kiss him.

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations (Mandarin and Spanish)  
> thanks to summertea for setting me straight on some of these!
> 
>  
> 
> _Yú bèn de…wáng bā dàn – stupid bastards_  
>  Guǐ - hell  
> Dǒng ma – (do you) understand  
> Fàng-xīn – don’t worry  
> Niào - piss  
> fèi huà – nonsense; rubbish  
> Bǎo bèi - sweetheart  
> yīn jīng – penis  
> gàn nǐ niáng – fuck your mother  
> Dāngrán – of course; naturally  
> Jǐnshèn – wary; cautious  
> Pìgu – butt  
> xiā shuō bā dào –nonsense; bullshit  
> Tā mā de – fuck  
> Tā mā de hún dàn – mother fucking son of a bitch  
> Gāisǐ – damn; shit  
> Hùndàn – assholes; jerks  
> guǎn nǐ zìjǐ de shì – mind your own business  
> zǎo'ān – good morning  
> Qù nǐde – fuck off  
> Liú kǒu shuǐ de biǎo zi hé hóu zi de bèn ér zi – stupid son of a drooling whore and a monkey (equivalent to “son of a bitch”)  
> jiàng júhuā – crimson chrysanthemum (beverage)  
> lèyìde – with pleasure; gladly  
> zuò chán – zazen; a meditative style/pose  
> Zhè shì shénme làn dōngxī – what the shit is this?  
> Bìzuǐ – shut up  
> wò kao – what in the hell  
> Shuài – literally “handsome,” often used as slang for “cool” or “awesome.”  
> Qǐngjìn – please come in  
> Duìbuqǐ – I’m sorry  
> Wǒ de mā hé tā de fēng kuáng de wài shēng – holy mother of god and all her wacky nephews  
> qù sǐ – go to hell  
> shèngzǐ – Jesus Christ (lit. “holy son”)  
> rén cí de fó zǔ – merciful god (lit. “merciful Buddha”)  
> Bèndàn – moron  
> Chiquito – little one  
> Hijo de puta – son of a bitch  
> Mi cariños – my darlings  
> Trozo de mierda – piece of shit  
> Gǒushǐ – dog shit  
> biǎo zi – bitches  
> Xūyú – brief moment, short interval of time (this character is written on a Companion’s hourglass – the brevity of one’s time with a Companion is part of the beauty of the encounter)  
> 


End file.
